Last week, I went to a new restaurant that was eerily short on customers. And a menu.
Even the few employees acted as if they were confused as to why anyone would show up asking to be fed.
It reminded me of a night back in 2002, when I was in London, studying for my master’s degree. My then-husband and I were perusing Time Out, a popular magazine that featured all of the latest hot spots. They mentioned a cool new place, Cynthia’s Cyber Bar, that featured a robotic bartender and excellent cuisine. And, as it turned out, was located just a few blocks down the South Bank, right where we lived.
We convinced another couple to join us, because ROBOTIC BARTENDER.
The Time Out article said we would probably need reservations, but since it was so close, we figured we would take our chances. When we got there, the hostess greeted us with a confused expression.
“Hi?” she said, as if it were a question.
“Hey,” we said. “We’re looking for dinner and we’ve been craving drinks made by a robot.”
The hostess winced and looked down at her computer. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No,” I said. “We just thought we’d take our chances.”
She took in a deep breath and entered a few keystrokes. “I think we can accommodate you.”
After a few minutes, she led us back to the dining room. Which was empty. Absolutely empty.
There was the bar, with a giant robot that looked like Rosie the maid from “The Jetsons.” (If you don’t know what that is... you’re young. Congratulations.)
But the robot was motionless. Her eyes dark.
“So, she makes the drinks?” I asked.
“Um, yes, but she’s not feeling well today,” the hostess said.
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.
The hostess cupped her mouth. “She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
The four of us exchanged glances.
The hostess seated us at a table near the bar, and I couldn’t help looking over at Cynthia. She seemed so sad. Her red eyes were blank. Her tin hands sat motionless at her side. She was without a purpose.
Our waiter, a small, confused looking man, brought us menus, which appeared to be handwritten on red construction paper.
The choices were: pasta, pasta, or... pasta.
“I guess we’ll take the pasta?” we all said.
A few minutes later, we saw a man emerge from the kitchen and stride past our table with a purpose. Forty-five minutes later, he was back. With a couple plastic bags filled with groceries.
Another half hour passed, and they brought our food. The nicest thing I can say is that it tasted like cardboard. With ketchup.
We asked for our check, and our “waiter” came out with a strained smile. “So, like, twenty pounds?”
Us: “Are you asking us?”
Waiter: Continues to smile.
It should be noted that the entire time we were there (two hours on a Friday night) NO ONE ELSE CAME IN OR OUT OF THE RESTAURANT. Except our cook, who obviously had to run to the grocery store to pick up the ingredients to make our “pasta.”
Afterward, there was no other conclusion, other than that we were definitely eating in a restaurant that was a front for a drug operation. As for the recent restaurant... it could have used a cool robot behind the bar.
Brodi Ashton is a New York Times best-selling author who lives in the Salt Lake City area. She’s also an occasional columnist for The Salt Lake Tribune.