Gold Street Dumpster

Jessica and I had the displeasure of "dining" (I am using that term VERY loosely) at the Gold Street diner this evening. The Financial District was all a buzz that something was finally opening in the area that would be 24 hours and served the scrumptious clientele of hot 20-something investment bankers with fat pockets and empty bellies. Well, let's just say that "disappointing" would be a rave review of this dumpster, erm, diner.

Let's start with the decor. How can I put this delicately? It looked like a blind Special Olympian with a vengeance decorated the place. How's that? Mismatched kitschy-diner decor, neon signs, vomit mustard yellow table tops, and rainbow colored walls. I can just visualize Thom Filicia holding his head in his hands screaming "Awwwwwhhhhhh!! It looks like a crazy person lives here!!" The only place this diner belongs is Port Authority, and even there, the crackheads would say "We wouldn't go into THAT place...let's go cook meth at Siberia." (Hi Fergie!)

The service was miserable and the food had a face to match. Our courses came out at a whim (apparently whatever is prepared first comes out, regardless of the fact that it's an appetizer or entree). Jessica's turkey burger was reminiscent of a frisbee in bread, and my Huevos Rancheros was reminiscent of the upcoming Menudo album.

Usually, at these type of places, the food is mediocre but the dessert is something to make up for the lackluster cuisine. Well, not here apparently! We ordered the "doughnuts with Nutella and jam" which ended up being warmed up petite dinner rolls dusted with powdered sugar, and two small plates of Nutella and jam on the side. What? It was horrendous.

I assume the doors with shudder soon and here's hoping they open a Nobu or something fabulous in its place. Even Burritoville would suffice.

Boo!