Our restaurants are included in that definition.
The pretty awesome one. Not the douche one.
All restaurants except for one.
Yakuza.
It seems fitting, considering its namesake is influenced from the oyabun or kumicho who bossed people around as they pleased (And killed them if they weren’t pleased).
That’s exactly how our first outing at Yakuza was. Like awesome people, we sat at the bar. The bartender/waitress? She went super oyabun on our asses and profiled the heck out of us.
There’s only one other time I’ve been profiled in a Portland restaurant (Circa 33, I’m talking about you and your blonde waitress who cared more about the three Chads at the table ahead of us than me and my fiance who had just finished moving into a new place and were jonesing for major drinks and major food. I get it -- we were grungy and tired and ooooooogly but we had the bills to lay down and were willing to give you a big ole tip-- but you still kind of suck...though not enough to be Blacklisted), but still, not something you except from 98% of Portland restaurants. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. How did it come to pass that we’ve Blacklisted Yakuza? Get ready, because here’s how it went down:
First Visit:
Straight up TERRIBLE service! (And just for our own peace of mind... We’re not sticklers, or assholes. We’re laid back, have both worked service industry jobs, we know the difference between busy and bad service, and we’re always appreciative.) But this wasn’t like, “its super busy and the bartender’s running all over the place so you have to wait a bit longer” service. We were just plain ignored, forgotten and otherwise neglected because the bartender was chatting with friends, and just generally paying attention to, uh, not us. Decent food. Don’t go there for sushi. Or drinks. Or a good time. Unless you’re a Chad or the tiny-skirt-wearing girlfriend of a Chad.
This visit was a while ago, pre burger blog. And after this unpleasant experience, we were going to have trouble going back.
BUT, we wanted to try their burger because our favorite issue of Portland Monthly Magazine gushed about the amazingness of their beefy patty of wonder and joy. So we said, “Hey, the last visit could have been a fluke. We’ll give Yakuza another shot, especially for the sake of the blog. We’re obligated to try EVERY Portland burger after all!”
Thing is...we never got to try it. And we never will.
Why?
Second Visit:
Saturday night, we walk in, looking Portlandy posh (Yes, Jason was donning his lumberjack plaid jacket and I had on a cotton black dress adorned with my meat cleaver necklace) only to find out twenty minutes later that the place was ‘closed’ to outsiders due to a party.
I suppose the lack of hostess should have been our first cue.
I suppose the couple who looked exactly like us, glancing around to see if they were ever going to get service, who ended up leaving five minutes later should have been the second cue.
I suppose the fact that I needed to be wearing a napkin-sized skirt and Jason needed to have three popped collars should have been our third cue.
Why did we have to get through all the cues? Because though apparently the place was reserved for a private party, there was no freaking sign on the door! That’s usually how it goes when a place is reserved for a private event right? And what about the other two-tops in the the front dining area filled with diners eating burgers? Were they part of the party and just sitting by themselves eating burgers? Maybe, but I have my doubts. Also, there was the waitress we FINALLY tracked down who couldn’t give us a straight answer about this party. Most party goers were in the back patio, so we asked if the dining area was closed too. She replied, “Yeah, pretty much.” ….... What does that mean?? Is it or isn’t it? This lead us to draw this conclusion: there was definitely a party going on, but was all of Yakuza reserved? No. Everyone was just too busy with the party to bother taking care a couple average burger lovers.
Yakuza, we’ll never eat your burger. And that sucks, cause we thought you were going to be awesome. And I bet your burger is awesome.
What you’ve got your wakizashi behind that bar? I don’t think so. You have nothing but the reputation of being good. And according to Yelp, that reputation is tumbling downhill at a faster rate than Edo became Tokyo (Which I know wasn’t super fast, but come on, give me the reference).
Take a freaking Japanese chill pill. Or heck, an Oregon-grown chill pill. There are lot of people in our lovely laid back city who can help you out with that.
Find them. Use them. (Puff, puff, pass, Yakuza.) And then let us know when you’re actually cool again.
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