Iguacu – a Review of ineptitude

It is Mothers Day today and being the only child left living in New Zealand we decided to organise a Mothers Day lunch. A short six months ago we had a Fathers Day lunch at Iguacu and so decided we would have Mothers Day there this year. The missus organised for her mother and father to attend and being a special occasion we booked in advance.

There were 8 of us and we arrived at 12:30 as per our booking. Now I begin the tale of the worse meal I have ever had and a story that will send shivers down your spine.

We had to wait over 30 minutes for the very sour waitress to even take our orders then we had to wait for a further 40 minutes for the selection of breads to arrive. I say selection to be generous as it was the smallest breadroll you could imagine and it was to be divided amoungst the eight of us. Jesus himself would have been struggling to divide amongst eight of us let alone feed the 5000. I’ve had more bread at communion.

While we were tryng to find out how best to spread the microscopic bun amongst ourselves the wine turned up…unfortunately it didn’t actually turn up as they had delivered the wrong bottle, opened it and proceeded to pour it when my father noticed the distinct colour difference that the staff had clearly missed between Wooing Tree Rose and Wooing Tree Pinot Noir. Now the difference isn’t just in colour but also in price not to mention the distinct difference in bottle shape. The Rose was $40 and the Pinot Noir was $60. So same brand but everything else wrong, wrong, wrong.

Worse was yet to come. At one hour and forty minutes the staff deigned to deliver some real food to our table. That’s right a full 100 minutes after we walked in and sat down the entree’s arrived.

Two of us had Calamari, one with a quarter of lemon, one without. We had ordered the kids meals to be delivered with the entrees and just as well too! The Girl’s chicken nuggets looked like they had been got out of the dumpster at the back of McDonalds three weeks ago and reheated. The Boy’s “pizza” was in reality a hunk of focaccia sprinkled with the bare minimum of toppings (that’s the whol “pizza” he shoving in his gob). The garlic bread that we asked for to stave of the excruciating pangs of hunger were in actual fact smaller rolls again, if such a thing were indeed possible, and a little pottle of garlic butter to share between 8 again.

We wondered what the mains were going to be like, and we wondered and we wondered and we wondered. By this time the two hour parking we all had paid for was about to expire and three of us got up to go feed the meter. This being Parnell and reputation of the voracious carpark patrols preceding our visit we felt that we couldn’ afford to not feed the meters. This proved to be very wise as I will explain later. By the time we had returned there still wasn’t even a hint of the mains being delivered. One of our table had even asked the sour waitress where they were, to which she relied “We do have over 200 people in the restaurant you know”. Well excuuuuuuse Me…so what!, we all booked, it wasn’t like it was a fucking surprise was it?

Finally the mains arrived at 2:20, except by now we had no wine and no bottled water, the bottles though had been left for us all to admire in the middle of the table. We couldn’t toast or anything Mothers Day and we were all coming down with acute asthma. The wine was never topped up nor was the water.

The mains were, well average, actually even that is being kind. They were as crap as the service and that was appalling. I had tossed up wether to have the Carpaccio or the Calamari for entree, I chose Calamari, which turned out to be fortuitous because what I got for my main instead of the Sirloin was just really a thick kind of carpaccio. Now I like my meat blue, fair enough, but I also like it hot, not fricken colder than your love for a whore when you’ve come. The missus ordered a Salmon Salad. The rather limp looking rocket covered Salmon looked ok until you tasted it. It was warmer than my fricken Sirloin. If my Sirloin had been that warm I could have lived with it. The MIL ordered the Monkfish and being highly allergic to pepper and things peppery she asked them to leave off the sauce, they didn’t, they left it on the plate tainting all of the fish which she described as tasteless, so tasteless that even if you used it for bait it wouldn’t attract any bites. It was served with a pile of plain and warm rice. There was a bonus though for her, having waited an extra ten minutes for her main longer than everone else, a scalding hot plate that the chef had obviously forgotten he had left under the salamander.

By this time Whaleoil Snr. had just about reached the end of his tether. The jokes flying around the restaurant about the service were loud and getting obnoxious. We asked for the manager. She didn’t deign to grace us with her prescence until 3:00, two and half hours after we walked in the joint. Her excuses were to put it bluntly, pathetic. She told us how we were the only table who had experienced trouble (which was a lie, as you are about to find out), she old us how hard they had all worked and how successful the Mothers Day lunch was, and that was it. It was about then I handed over my card and told her to read the review when I put it up tonight that she finally worked out that she was in deep shit and the mess wasn’t going to be pretty.

To cap it all off they couldn’t even get the bill right. The wine which we didn’t order was on the bill twice, and only once reversed, the wine we did order wasn’t on the bill. There was no compensation for the poor, shoddy, disgusting service nor the poor shoddy dusgusting food. The bill was paid grudgingly in full knowledge that the review was going to be even worse. We walked out a full three hours since entering the worst restaurant known to man.

The final piece de resistance though was to get to the carpark to find that the people who had just escaped before us were now waiting in the carpark for the clamping company to arrive to remove the clamps on their car that they had got for taking 1 hour longer than intended eating lunch in the exact same establshment.

Iguacu bites, I will never, ever eat there again and I will tell as many people as I can about their crap restaurant. Oh and one last thing, the doris with her photo in the front of the menu has an MDA (Distinction), too bad it wasn’t in restaurant management.

Iguacu has fallen a long way from being Restaurant of the Year in 2007 nor would they come close to getting in the finals for the Excellence in Customer Service Award that they also won in 2007. Even the coffee shop in Taihape would score better.

If anyone else has had a crap meal at Iguacu then please fill in the comments.

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