Foodsday Tuesday: The Tale of the Fish Who Died in Vain

"Merlot." She pronounced it "more-low." I had to ask her to repeat herself twice before I understood what she meant. (It should be noted that Ross and I have had our share of Malbec and Rioja there when the manager was working.)

"Know what? I think I actually want a cocktail. Stoli O and cranberry." Make fun of me all you want, but I figured I was at least safe with this order, as I'd had the drink at the bar on a few separate occasions.

"Stereo?"

"Stoli vodka. The orange kind."

She still looked confused. Ross was smart. He ordered a beer. The waitress walked away, then returned with Ross's beer. "Your drink will be right out," she assured me.

I watched the flustered bartender try to find the vodka for which I'd asked. She kept returning to the Smirnoff Orange. "That's fine," I hollered over to her. "The Smirnoff is fine." She looked relieved, made my drink. The waitress brought it over then started to walk away. "Umm... we're ready to order."

"Oh yeah, sorry. What did you want." It wasn't a question. (She was pleasant from start to finish. At some point during the appetizer course, she walked up to our table carrying a bottle of Stoli Vanil. "Is this the vodka you wanted?" I said yes, but the orange kind, not the vanilla. "Yeah, I got that part," she said, "but our bartender is new and she didn't know." Way to throw your coworker under the bus!)

I asked her how big the appetizers were and whether they were meant for sharing. She said that it depended on the dish, but that the queso fundido I was interested in was just "a little cup of cheese." I was surprised when it arrived at the table as about half a pound of melted cheese with my requested chorizo and green chilies on top. Though a little chewy for fundido (Spanish for fondue), the flavor was good, and the wings that Ross ordered were quite enjoyable. We were almost ready to forgive the wine, um, "list."

Almost.

But then the entrees came.

While Ross's Carne a la Cubana was tasty, if slightly chewy and overcooked (the waitress didn't ask how he wanted his steak done), my Pargo Tricolor—red snapper in a tri-colored sauce—was quite possibly the worst thing I've ever been served in a restaurant. It didn't even look appetizing: the fish was so overcooked that it had taken on the appearance of those pre-formed chicken patties they call "grilled chicken" in public school cafeterias. It didn't tear apart easily with my fork the way such a light, flaky fish should. The skin was still on the fish, and while I realize that that's a personal preference for some, the skin on properly cooked fish should peel away easily for those who don't care for it. Trying to separate skin from fish in this instance became an almost comical endeavor. And yet all of this might have been forgivable if the fish had any flavor to it. Any flavor at all.

But no, taking a bite of the dry, dry fish fillets (the sauce was on the plate underneath them, and was less a sauce than a pepper-and-onion stir-fry) was like chewing on a rubber band. It didn't even have salt. It was completely inedible. The poor, poor snapper had died in vain, and I was left picking at my rice and the wilted salad that inexplicably came on my plate (lettuce really isn't supposed to get hot), even though there was no mention of it on the menu. Thank god I'd eaten so much of my queso fundido.

Much like Isla Ibiza had been, Q-Ba was almost completely empty. But while Isla Ibiza deserved more patronage than it got, our experience leaves me unsurprised that nobody wants to eat at Q-Ba. Will I return to the bar? Absolutely—it is, after all, a three minute walk from my house. I might even order some queso fundido or wings. But I'll be looking elsewhere for dinner in the future.

Image Credit: Flickr user PinkMoose