On Saturday night, Ari and I went out to dinner at a Japanese tapas place for our friend’s birthday, and things went slightly different than planned.
From the beginning, the people working at the restaurant seemed a little confused.
Drinks were wrong, food came out differently than it was supposed to and one guy even had to wait almost forty minutes for his beer. Which he never got. He ended up having to get a different one because after all the waiting, our server finally told him that the beer he wanted was out. The guy is nicer person than me, because if I had to be sober for that long in public I would’ve punched someone’s baby.
As the night went on and I tried to pretend that the girl sitting across from me didn’t make me want to stab my hand with my fork, everyone got their final course, except me.
So I sat there.
And sat there.
I was being Adult Chris, mainly so that Ari didn’t give me A Talking To, so I just asked the server a couple times where my food was.
Forty-five minutes later, the owner comes out, and this is when the fun began.
He came to the table because he heard that we were complaining to the server about my food. At first, he was calm, hearing about all the things that had gone wrong, and then, I think maybe he lost his mind.
He gripped the end of the table with both of his hands and yelled, “This is our best!” Then he stormed off.
I thought about this, and how awesome it would be to always give this response, no matter the situation, but decided that yelling, “This is my best!” at people would just be another thing I do that does not make Ari very happy.
After the owner yelled at us, we decided, “Whatever, let’s pay and bounce.”
Meanwhile I was about as drunk as William Shatner because I’d been drinking Goose and sodas and still hadn’t eaten.
Then, like a bolt of lightning, the owner was back at our table. He looked repentant, so I was thinking he was going to apologize for flipping out and making me grip my knife in defense mode, but he instead proceeded to accuse of us saying that we hate Japanese people.
I think that was the point we decided to leave without paying.
Not only was the dinner terrible from start to finish, we were now outed as the secret Japanese haters that we all knew, deep down, we really were.
Having gone and experienced this place and its loony owner, I think I’m now qualified to write a review:
Bozu offers a quaint atmosphere. If you and your racist friends have always wanted to not get your food and get yelled at by an owner, then make a reservation. For the full treatment, just be sure to make it under “Stupidjaps.”