A Scathing Review of the Golden Monkey Restaurant

My grandmother and I ate at your restaurant last night, and I couldn’t be more outraged and insulted by the service we received. I’ll tell you why.

I couldn’t help but notice that all of your staff were of Asian descent. There is a blatant lack of diversity in your restaurant which you probably try to pass off as “authenticity”. That’s not to mention the shameless nepotism – several of your employees were clearly related – you probably excuse under the guise of “family tradition”. As such, I’ll be consulting the Labour Relations Board.

That was only the beginning of a long list of mistakes that nearly resulted in the death of my 97-year-old Granny…

Ruth’s vision has slowly deteriorated over the past several years, and one of the wheels on her walker pulls maddeningly to the left. It really wasn’t her fault when she knocked into one of your (incompetent) employees, who in turn spilled a pot of piping hot tea onto the hideous and apish looking family at table 7b. I trained for six weeks as a server/performer at the Velvet Rope Gentleman’s Club, and the number one rule was to ALWAYS be aware of your surroundings (rule two was to watch for sneaky fingers).

After that MAJOR disruption, which resulted in me getting an earful from the head primate at 7b, Granny and I finally settled down at the table. We requested some forks because Granny’s gout has evolved into a full-blown disability (crib nights have suffered accordingly) and chopsticks are for the uncivilized. They took too long to arrive.

Then when the chicken balls (finally) showed up, and Granny popped out her dentures onto the table, I was accosted once again by Mr. 7b, who demanded that I “tell the old hag to breathe through her mouth, for god’s sake.” I took my eyes off Granny for one second to bring this primordial oaf into the 21st century, when trouble really started.

Granny began choking on a chicken ball…

She hacked and coughed and went blue in the face, so in an act of heroism, I performed an impromptu version of the Heimlich maneuver. My technique would combine one-half of my high school wrestling training and some information I remembered off the back of a pamphlet at New Haven Hospital. Thank god my technique was successful, because the collection of ignoramuses you employ as staff panicked and called 911, which saddled me with a ridiculously expensive ambulance bill at the end of the night.

Suffice to say, it was one of the worst experiences of my life and I left no tip. I did, however, give your restaurant a 1/5 rating on Urbanspoon because Ruth said the chicken balls were actually pretty good (before things took a turn for the worse).

Sincerely aggrieved,

Becky Gilmore

Someone Please Date My Friend Derrick

 

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