Carpacchio has been serving up pseudo-Italian fare at Fremont & MLK (in the poorly-named Fremont Building at King’s Crossing), but it took me until last month to make it there. I think Sasha and I were striking out on finding a place to eat, and we ended up at that corner, so in we went.
I suppose I was walking backwards when I went inside.
I think the cook-dude in the photo is one of the owners. At least, that’s what the server claimed. Server? Waiter. Well, he served and waited. It was his first day on the job, unfortunately, and while I’m not well-known for being particularly friendly to waitstaff (serverstaff), his lack of knowledge about anything to do with the menu, and his general (genial) bumblingness was disconcerting. I didn’t photograph him, though.
Sasha was looking ridic cute. The restaurant itself was cute enough, as well….
…until you come around to the ‘wall o’ many wines’ and find a mason jar partly full of a mysterious black liquid, resting behind wine bottles. Afraid that it might be the coffee/burnt engine oil that signaled the fight for a person’s soul on Twin Peaks, we spent the rest of our meal pretending it wasn’t there.
There was no need to pretend our food wasn’t there, tiny portions did our work for us. I failed to take a photo of one of our dishes, but that’s because it was both disgusting, and almost invisible: three slivers of unremarkable chicken, and a single small button mushroom, drowned in what could only be called salt sauce. For six dollars. I invite you to think about what it might cost to get a half a chicken breast and a single mushroom and ruin them with salt, and then what it might feel like to put it on a plate, hand it to a (nervous, anxious) wait-server, and send it out to a customer.
I had a glass of wine, but I don’t remember anything about it. I was sad that I’d used up one of Sasha’s “I owe you a meal” chits at Carpacchio, but let’s end on something resembling a positive note. For better or for worse, it’ll have to be a repeat of earlier’s – the decor was bearable.
Perhaps I don’t understand enough about how Italians eat. I certainly felt like I wasn’t in on the joke. Either way, Lindsey Buckingham said it best (leaving aside the obvious fact that in the song, the narrator’s resolve is shaky, at best), I’m never going back again. Thank you.