Jeff
Google
After finishing a lengthy meeting, my colleagues and I decided to stop into Kenka for dinner on a Thursday night. While we were waiting in the extremely long line, one colleague realized he had left his wallet at the bar we’d just come from. He sprinted back to get it like he was auditioning for a Nike commercial, and during that time the manager—a young woman with fake eyelashes applied with the enthusiasm of someone frosting a cupcake—rolled her eyes and refused to seat us until everyone was present. We explained the situation, but empathy was clearly not on the menu, so she gave our table to another group.
After a few more minutes standing in the kind of cold that could turn nipples into medieval weaponry, our colleague returned and we were finally seated. The dining area was exactly what you’d expect from a grungy St. Marks spot—nothing shocking, unless you count the décor, which seems to have been curated by someone who collects chaos.
When it came time to order, our waiter, took our order and everything seemed normal. We got our pitcher of beer, and then one entrée arrived… and nothing else. We waited, and then another person’s dish came out several minutes later, then another much later. The food delivery was so staggered I started to wonder if the kitchen staff was cooking each dish one at a time on a single tea candle. I thought this was a restaurant, not a drive-thru with commitment issues.
I asked the manager about the missing rice, and she gave me a slow up-and-down like she was scanning me for weapons, then said, “It’s coming.” Fifteen more minutes passed—still nothing. When I followed up again, she responded, “I don’t know, maybe tomorrow,” and walked off. I was stunned. I’m usually very respectful to restaurant staff because I know service work is hard, but this felt like performance art.
She then sent our waiter over, who seemed to mock the interaction with a scheming grin on his face by saying my entrée would arrive “tonight.” At that point, I canceled the dish, partly because I was uncomfortable and partly because I didn’t trust squid cooked under these conditions.
We finished our beer, and despite the cancellation, the entrée still came out like a plot twist no one asked for. We declined it. Then we waited a long time for the check, which included an automatic 7% gratuity—probably their way of admitting they know exactly how the service is going.
Meanwhile, one of my colleagues—who ordered the beef stir fry, theoretically the safest item on the menu—started feeling sick and had to leave early. When we checked on her afterward, we found her curled up on the floor of her apartment like she was auditioning for the role of “Dramatic Hospital Patient #3.” She normally follows a very strict diet, so this reaction was extra alarming.
I’m writing this review while she’s still in the bathroom, rethinking her life choices. Overall, the service, the food timing, and the attitudes combined into an experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I genuinely don’t understand how this place continues to operate the way it does. If you want to avoid feeling disrespected—or hearing your stomach make sounds from a horror movie—there are much better options nearby, including the conveniently located Raising Cane’s.
Stay safe out there.