So ingrained into American culture was the delectable phenom of Italian food, that when we moved back to the Southeast, the first question we asked was "where is a good place to find Italian food?" We had grown up in Metro-Atlanta, eating wonderful, family-style Italian cuisine from men who could barely speak English, their first languages being Italian and Greek. We had a waiter who knew our whole family, and even asked after us in our Military absence to the point that he even looked forward to us coming home to dine at our favorite spot. The food was rich, full of love, full of flavor, full of tradition, and everything that is representative of that wonderful, passionate boot sticking out of the bottom of Europe. And yes, we have been to Italy, known its people and its food. Marchello's was all about Italian food. All about family. All about flavor.
Therefore, you can imagine my anticipation when the answer I was given from multiple locals was, "Garlic Clove." If truth be told, I had mixed reviews from the place, but I was desperate coming off of four years in the Midwest, where Italian food is bland and watered down to the point of unsalted tears. I just wanted some place where we could hang our hats and enjoy family-style Italian cuisine. The real deal. What we got was something...else.
Now, to be fair, I have never paid a bill to this establishment. We have tasted the food of this place three times; once, treated by our neighbors, once, treated by our church, and once via their catering at an event. I want it said that I am grateful for the generosity of our good friends and community. The first experience was my best; I had their salad bar. To be truthful, though, Ruby Tuesday has them beat. Let that sink in and take it for what it is.
My second experience was with a group. I understand that in a small business, the quality of what you provide, especially in a time-sensitive scenario, decreases as volume of distribution increases. It's just the nature of the beast. However, I would not have expected the standards to dip as low as I witnessed. I very simply ordered this: Ceasar Salad with Salmon Fillet. A standard offering at any restaurant that ever wrote a menu in English since the invention of the Caesar Salad. Here's what I got: A Caesar Salad. Oh, and my salmon? It came out separately. On a cheesy silver platter, like it was John the Baptist's severed head. Problem was; it was puddled in a pool of cool water. First clue of a microwaved or inadequately seared piece of fish. I cut into it. Raw. Raw, raw, raw.
I cook salmon all the time. Truth be told, it's not hard; that's why I ordered it. It cooks quickly. It cooks predictably. It cooks well when well-seasoned, seared at an appropriate temperature, and finished in an oven or gently on a pan hob. And it's very easy to avoid overcooking or undercooking it in the hands of a somewhat-skilled cook. What I received was a seared fillet of Salmon meat with an ice-cold core. I mean frigid. It was colder than raw salmon I had eaten next door at Toki. I'm not even kidding. Hot, seared on the outside, frozen in the middle. This says one thing to me: "NOT FRESH." Well, it actually says two things: "Not fresh," and "our fish is frozen solid until you eat it, and our staff isn't trained adequately."
I sent it back to the kitchen, with the server making absolutely no secret of being quite annoyed, thankyouverymuch. It quickly came back out on the same platter, clearly microwaved until done, still soaked in a pool of its own microwave juice. It was the worst salmon I have ever had in my life; it was rubbery, flavorless and tasted of freezer burn. This happened in front of twenty or so of my friends. So while said friends cautiously chowed down on their entrees, I went to the bathroom, which was littered with the Beowulf-style worship of the restaurant's "Executive Chef" via clips of various local (and I stress local) newspaper articles featuring him as some sort of hero. Fair enough. A chef deserves his accolades....as long as his proverbial walk matches his equally proverbial talk.
Obviously intrigued in the most skeptical way imaginable, I decided to inspect this chef's culinary domain, as I had noticed the open kitchen on my way to the restroom. What I saw was something out of the Beavis and Butthead textbook. No less than four people, three of which could not have even graduated high-school, stood slapping each other on the asses with wet towels as though service had been finished for two and a half hours and the patrons had long gone home. The only problem is that it was 7:30PM and the restaurant was full! And I swear to the nine (sorry...eight) planets of this solar system, that in a restaurant with over fifty (and yes, I counted) guests, not a single member of the kitchen staff was standing at a hob. Not a single ass was in front of a stove or a prep station. The lead "chef," (not the aforementioned 'Executive Chef,') was dressed in red, and he was the one I observed smacking his staff on the bums with his apron towel. It's simple math: no fresh cooking happening = no fresh food. This means Garlic Glove kitchen = fake food. Microwaved food. No chopping. No stirring. No tossing. Lots of horseplay. Raw salmon. It all makes sense now. And we haven't even gotten to the worst bit.
My third experience was of a catering nature, where my church catered in Garlic Clove's services for a Valentine's Dinner. I tried many things, but let me get straight to the OMG portion: Chicken Marsala. I was unfortunate enough to cut into an entire cutlet of unbelievably raw chicken breast. Completely raw. And this, again, was in the presence of an entire table of onlookers, all of whom had to examine their own bites to ensure that their slices of chicken weren't undercooked.
Obviously, I know that one experience does not damn an establishment. As I always maintain, everyone gets a mulligan. But three times. Three consecutive experiences ranging from mediocrity to outright dangerous culinary negligence, two of which were consecutive, leads me to believe that the standards of this restaurant are highly suspect.
I don't want to see a local business fail; I want to see a local business improve. I would encourage everyone reading this to reexamine their experience at this establishment, for the good of everyone who could potentially fall victim to their obviously inconsistent standards. Think critically, Augusta.
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