RPM Chicago

Rating: 3.0/10.0

It had taken a full month to get reservations at RPM, which I now know is a glorified Sbarro’s sans legendary Baked Ziti, Garlic Knots and friendly corporate atmosphere.  I knew instantly I was out of place because my man cleavage was non-existent. Damn it, I knew I should have the worn belly button deep  v-neck shirt I bought. My date, though beautifully dressed, was out of place as well. Her outfit not affording her the possibility of a well-timed nip/box slip like the rest of the proud restaurant attendees.

The building reeked of a perceived, imaginary exclusivity. Pushing through the revolving doors several future model/actresses/flight attendants stood around the check in table, none of which seemed to be actually doing any work. Alleged employees. As was the case with the rest of the restaurant, there were at least 3 employees to every 1 patron. Including an enormous shaved head security guard, that wearily eyed people eating mediocre pasta, every patron clearly a possible candidate to hit someone with a toothbrush shank. It was fascinating  watching the different employees perform imaginary or otherwise pointless tasks, one woman’s sole job was to determine whether anyone had taken a sip from their water glass and promptly refill it. Most just eagerly did laps around the restaurant.

We arrived on time, and were told to sit down in the waiting area. Reservations are meaningless in this world. After 20 minutes I looked at my phone realizing the host, who had several times made eye contact with me and flashed a stupid grin, had texted me telling me my table was ready. Because we all stare at our phones during a date. Confused I confronted him and he smugly assured be the table would be ready momentarily. Hands down one of the most bizarre interactions of my life.

The food arrived all too promptly, leaving no mystery that Giuliana Rancic herself was in the back  pleasantly microwaving her favorite Lean Cuisines. Manipulating the buttons with her ET fingersThere was a relentless battering about how every item on the menu required shaved black truffles (for an additional $22) to make it halfway decent. When we declined the waiter seemed perplexed and annoyed, clearly not ordering these had all but made us the bane of human existence.  It’s not that the food was bad…it just wasn’t good. I think I chipped a tooth on the garlic bread that was clearly pilfered from the lady feeding pigeons off the Wilson Red Line stop.  A true beacon of mediocrity. Long John Silver’s has a more esteemed seafood program. The portions were microscopic, sized perfectly for the sprites in FernGully, leaving any average sized human longing for more. The looming and hovering staff also made me feel like Joey Chestnut on 4th of July, shoveling the tiny morsels into my mouth to mercifully be relieved of their judging stares.

The over-hype on this restaurant cannot be stressed enough. I don’t know what moron first ate there and tricked this entire city into thinking it was good, but if I did I would give him a swift kick to the nuts.

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