Traif, a Brooklyn Blemish

The thing one must become accustomed to when dining in the City is the propensity of restaurateurs to regard your patronage as a privilege THEY have bestowed upon YOU. And it makes me sick.

Dialogue with a pretty, often pre-occupied hostess usually begins something like this:
"Um. Hi. Do you need a table or something? Well the wait is going to be about 3 hours, so unless you have a reservation you might just wanna go fuck yourself. Theeenks."

And so it was, a few nights ago when a companion and I wandered into TRAIF on the outskirts of Williamsburg that we were greeted and treated in a similar fashion.

I won't bog down this post with details from the horrific service experience we were subjected to courtesy of a pert, self-important pig claiming to be the owner, but I will mention that the food (though downright stingy in proportion) was interestingly put together, however it took well over a half-hour to be delivered to the table we were SO LUCKY to have been seated at.

Oh, and do you know what TRAIF means? It means any food that is non-kosher. By the way, the restaurant is situated right in the middle of a Hasidic Jewish neighborhood. There's something about this that I find to be in poor taste.

My recommendation? How shall I put this? I'd sooner go hungry than ever return.