Classified

Dear Classified,

I stopped by for dinner last night, and now I’m feeling so emotional that I must write you a letter.

Let me say that I quite like your menu.  It’s short, well-curated, and generally well-executed.  So when I came across your chicken sandwich, I decided to venture outside my comfort zone and give it a try.

What came out on the plate was a rather large pile of food.  I hesitate to call it a sandwich, although I cannot deny that there were two pieces of bread, and lots of non-bread items in between them.  In some venues, the very heft of this dish would have made it a success; but here, I am not so sure.  I tried to pick up one-half of the “sandwich”, only to be awed by its height.  There was no way this monstrosity would fit into my mouth.

After a few exploratory nibbles, I decided to use the “squeeze” technique to take a proper bite.  While I was able to rip off a decent chunk of food, I immediately felt a wave of disgust as mayonnaise extruded itself through the bread and smeared all over my hands that were so carefully (yet firmly) grasping my dinner.  Anger would come later, but at that moment, I could only feel surprise and disappointment.  How could you treat me this way, Classified?  Most other upscale establishments would not grease my palms like this.  The sandwich can be interpreted in so many ways – why did you choose to go this route?  Why?

Don’t get me wrong – you do most things well.  Your olives – excellent.  Your pasta is firm, never overcooked; it’s the best in the neighborhood.  Your wine selection is broad and the overall atmosphere is very pleasant.  Everyone I see is smiling; how great is that?  It’s a rare and noteworthy sight.

Oh, and can we talk about your air conditioning?  It drips all over the small communal table just inside the entrance.  Where you put the food that I ordered.  It’s no big deal, I’ll just bring my umbrella next time.  But other patrons may not be so forgiving (unless they also come for the pasta).

All the best,
Pisco