No lie, originally, this review was just going to be "Too salty."
Or I'd probably do it like this:
Salty as fuck.
A couple of my coworkers brought me a menu for this joint a couple months ago and it's just been tacked up in my cube ever since and today I figured I have a little extra scratch, the downtown popup is open, I haven't had a cubano in a minute, let me grab one of them.
So I walked my sexy black Irish ass all the way over to the popup across from the Dayton's, order the cubano (when I should have gotten "The Royale", their take on the Big Mac) (and can we just acknowledge that this name proves that these people know dick about pop culture because in Pulp Fiction, Vincent tells Jules that it's the quarter pounder that's called the Royale with Cheese because Europeans use the metric system) (and add to this that they call a Big Mac "Le Big Mac") (for real, even if you've seen the movie only once, you remember that part because it's in the first ten minutes, right after Dick Dale's "Miserlou" transitions into Kool & The Gang's "Jungle Boogie" and before Julius tells Vincent why Marcellus Wallace had Tony Rocky Horror thrown out of a window) (fucking normies) (Oh, and side note.) and I brought it back here, took the pics you see above and bit into it and, goddamned, this thing was too fucking salty. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me with the citrus braised pulled pork but it tasted really fucking salty. But I did pay thirteen dollars (before tax) for this thing and hate food waste, so I finished it (slowly) and ate my two apples and drank my grapefruit sparkling water (wish I had a soda pop but I need this water).
I don't know, man, this place is fine, the prices are what you'd expect for downtown, but the food was too fucking salty and nobody looked happy to be there. And, hey, I get it; who's happy to be at work? But the two line cooks looked mad at me, the lady who rung me up looked like she had run out of shits to give for the wwhhoollee rest of her life, and the dude who handed me my crunchwrap bullshit thing whatever looked like the dude Elliot dresses down in season one episode five of Mr. Robot. Remember Bill Harper? Of course you don't. Things have played out for Bill since twenty fifteen pretty much the way Elliot predicted: He's handing out crunchwraps in a downtown Minneapolis panini press popup.
So, no, I can't really recommend it. I won't tell you to not go but I'm in absolutely no hurry to return.
Oh, and these motherfuckers had the gall to charge four whole actual dollars for a fucking Jarritos. That, meine kleine tyrannjugend, is called robbery. Maybe I can tell you to not go. Charging four dollars for a fucking Jarritos. That's like trying to convince me that I don't need to lube up before you fuck me in the ass.
Yeah, you know what? Don't go.
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