I never got to the original M. Wells in Long Island City. I’ll never know if it was worthy of its hype — or a hoax. But I’m skeptical about no-reservations places with “madcap” chefs and cult followings elevated to OMG status by a two-star review in the Times (or anywhere).
Comes now M. Wells Dinette at MoMA PS1, its alleged successor. The other day, a single hapless waiter served 70 or so people in a tacky room set up like a school cafeteria.
The chalkboard “menu” listed all of seven items (cash only). They were out of soft drinks. My order for escargots with “Pastis compound butter” rocked the house on its heels: the $9 bowl took 30 (30!) minutes to arrive.
That happened after the waiter dropped by after 25 (25!) minutes to ask, “Now what did you want again?” I was hungry enough to take a chomp out of the tattoos — nude women, flaming beasts — on his arms.
This was the joint that’s gotten more media ink than most of the new season’s real restaurants?
Most perplexing: Where was the horse?
For weeks, M. Wells’ promise of horsemeat tartare had tantalized the dining millions.
But the chalkboard listed only beef tartare. When might the horse burst from its stable?
“Probably not any time soon,” a demoralized staff member confided. A loud PETA protest the day before apparently chilled the idea for good.
The hell with the horse: It’s time to rein in the hype.