By David Minsky
By Nicole Danna
By Sara Ventiera
By Candace West
By Emily Dabau
By Doug Fairall
By Candace West
By Laine Doss
So despite the hype and fuss, Y2K came and went, and basically it was glitch-free. The only trouble I noticed was a brief power outage in my neighborhood that kept the traffic lights from functioning on New Year's Day. Bet those survivalists camping in bunkers feel pretty stupid right now.
At least that's what I thought before I dined the next evening at Moonraker on the Water, on the Intracoastal at Oakland Park Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale. Formerly the highly regarded Continental dining and dancing landmark called Yesterday's, Moonraker is displaying so many bugs that, if it were a computer, it surely would have crashed.
I admit that as Yesterday's the 25-year-old eatery was a little outmoded. Prime rib and broiled seafood seemed less than adventurous going into the year 2000, as did the live band playing bar mitzvah music throughout the dinner hour. Long-time proprietor Peter Beck, who also owns a handful of other restaurants in Broward and Palm Beach counties, was probably wise to look to the future or, as he put it in a press release, to take "the 'yesterday' out of Yesterday's." He changed the name to Moonraker; updated the Continental menu by going global; renovated the multitiered dining room by adding rattan chairs, green-and-tan-striped banquettes, cherry-wood tables, and light fixtures in the shape of moons; and relaxed what used to be a pretty formal dress code. Diners still have to valet their cars, but they can actually wear jeans here now. And while the music is still live, it's more karaoke than bar mitzvah these days -- the band is electronically augmented.
What I can't figure out is why the two-month-old eatery appears to have regressed rather than moved forward. The name is bad enough, suggesting 007 (shades of the '60s) rather than '00. But where service used to be as exquisite as the manners of Bond, James Bond, the staff now seems as appallingly untrained as Austin Powers. The hostess scolded a customer at the top of her lungs when she spied him trying to take a chair from another table. "Sir!" she screamed. "We'll do that for you!" As it turned out, she had to move an entire table, balancing it precariously over the heads of several other diners, to accommodate this man's party, which was already milling around the dining room. If she'd asked them to wait in the bar while she readied their spot, she could have seated them where it was convenient for the restaurant without resorting to such disruptive gymnastics.
Then, immediately after that scene, she passed another table, where a woman had just gotten up to go to the restroom. The hostess immediately snatched her napkin, and I thought she was about to fold it, a nicety that the finer restaurants provide. Wrong: She bent down and wiped a drop of water off the tile floor with it. Granted, she did bring the customer an extra set of silverware wrapped in a napkin, but gauche, baby, gauche.
Perhaps even more coarse is that the restaurant actually charges for a loaf of bread, a fact that is written on the menu but didn't accompany the waiter's offhand "How 'bout some bread?" The bread was then brought on a tricornered china plate rather than a wooden board -- hardly conducive to cutting.
But our server wasn't just forgetful or oblivious; he was also maladroit. For instance, draft beers like the Newcastle Brown Ale are billed on the menu as being 20 ounces, yet they're served in promotional pint glasses emblazoned with the Newcastle logo. When we pointed out to our waiter that pint glasses hold only 16 ounces, he said, "Oh, they must have given you the wrong glass" -- not "Let me get you the missing four ounces, or the right-size glass." And when we ordered another round, the beer was again brought in the same type of pint glass.
Fortunately for us, though, our waiter was blessed with bionic ears that overheard us discussing amongst ourselves whether or not to order the shrimp-and-crab quesadilla entrée as an appetizer for the four of us to share. How else to explain the appearance of a food-runner, holding aloft said quesadilla along with our loaf of bread, when we hadn't even placed our order yet?
We kept the quesadilla, which turned out to be lukewarm and had a strong fishy taste the guacamole, sour cream, and salsa toppings couldn't hide. Our other starters, which we ordered after the quesadilla's arrival, magically appeared before we could even finish the darn thing. In fact, food was whipping out of the kitchen so quickly, it felt as if we were on the receiving end of an assembly line. Then again, Moonraker is actively promoting its catering for up to 350 guests in its waterfront banquet rooms, so maybe the staff was practicing its wedding-reception skills on us. Practice harder.
Communication between the wait staff and the customers was also faulty. Our food-runner had brought our starters -- a cup of lobster bisque, a hearty mixture doused with a nice touch of sherry; crisp vegetable egg rolls napped with a sinus-clearing plum-mustard sauce; and a basket of fried calamari and zucchini with both marinara and rémoulade. Then he showed up at our table five minutes later with four bowls of bisque. "Who gets the soup?" he asked us, and the party across the aisle waved their hands. When he came back with appetizers a third time, we just laughed outright at his inefficiency, not to mention his poor memory.