By Debbie L. Miller
I write regarding the litany of complaints, accusations, and falsehoods perpetrated about my establishment.
To address the inane confusion over my No Reservations policy here at Mawby’s All-American Tribeca, a number of you have complained about long lines. Like cattle who are too stupid to come inside from the cold, you stand in line for five hours in sub-zero weather for the privilege—I suggest you use your time more efficiently and do something more productive.
To the 30-member wedding party that claims it was “violently ill” after dining at my restaurant, you obviously contracted a virus somewhere, and to imply that food poisoning was the culprit is absurd. The 35 Health Department violations to which you so glibly refer were never verified. In fact, your nitwit party is to blame for exposing my staff to pathogens. You owe me an apology and payment for $11,587 incurred in lost revenue as a result of your negligence. My attorneys will be in touch, assholes.
To certain members of my kitchen staff: you have accused me of luring you into sex acts in the walk-in cooler in exchange for continued employment. Obviously, this is yet another rumor started by several jealous, disgruntled (and soon to be, former) employees crushing on me. Look at me, I’m gorgeous! Am I the kind of guy who needs to hit on subordinates to get laid? At my previous restaurant, Insectly Yours, which closed last year amid an unsubstantiated scandal, employees were beating down my office door day and night for booty.
The latest in this travesty of justice is the accusation of price-gouging by former patrons who obviously subsist on dollar store staples. If you’re looking for a bargain, fools, I suggest you take the ferry to Staten Island. This is New York City, you idiots, not Trenton.
Every week, some sad sack server, host, or bartender complains that I treat them badly. I don’t allow them to use the bathroom, I force them to clean my apartment and pick up my dry cleaning. Boo hoo. Look, I don’t treat my inferiors any worse than I treat my own family. I’m not Big Bad Daddy, as you scrawled on the bathroom wall. If you doubt how well I treat family, losers, ask one of my six ex-wives or 15 estranged kids.
And, finally, to the churlish reviewer who said they’d sooner eat their last meal on death row than dine at my restaurant again, that can be arranged, you overblown suburban community college culinary school dropout.
Go Fuck Yourselves,
Mawby’s All-American Tribeca