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DiJon's
4928 Homberg Dr.
602-3001

by Les DuLunch

If I had three wishes, I'd use one to get a magic slate—you know, that little black-barred clicky thing filmmakers use to mark different takes. That way, if I'd done something that needed to be erased, I could just whip my magic slate out, click it shut, and have the chance to do it all over again. Of course, the trick would be to get it right the second time—and that's not always so easy to do, as I learned on a recent visit to DiJon's.

I've been to DiJon's before, although much has changed since that first visit last year. On go-round number one, I found the restaurant (then in its first incarnation as an underwhelming garden cafe) uneven but not unpleasant, and gave it what I thought was a fair 2-and-a-half bone average rating. But things have taken a turn for the worse, as I discovered on a requested return trip—and it's not so much the food as the convoluted process involved in getting it.

Here's the problem in a nutshell: If your restaurant has to come with a set of instructions for use, it's probably either time to try a new concept (that would be number three, in this case) or just call it a wrap.

Sometimes I have absolutely no idea what people are thinking—a concept that never ceases to completely amaze me, so I usually conclude that they aren't doing much thinking at all. DiJon's is now posited as a gritty New York-style pizzeria, replete with graffiti-sprayed ceiling tiles, street signs, and framed black and white posters of the Statue of Liberty. You'll have plenty of time to take note of and perhaps appreciate the helter-skelter atmosphere if you've failed to notice the "Is This Your First Time Dining Here?" poster, which contains the operating instructions. (Admittedly, it was posted on the front door, as I discovered on my way out, but could easily be ignored since it had almost as much home PC-printed black type on it as there was white laminated paper. After all, the only thing one expects to read extensively at a restaurant is the menu.) I waited under the bored eye of an un-busy bartender for approximately 15 minutes before finally noticing another sign and getting up to inspect it.

The instructions sent me first to the order counter, which, although labeled, was hidden from view around the corner both from the door and my seat. I placed my order and returned to the table, after getting my own water from the fountain on the other side of the restaurant. Would the bartender actually rise from her stool to deliver the beer whenever it was ready? Of course not; there was no way for her to know that I'd even ordered it. Another trip was in order, first to the ordering counter to ask whether or not I should ask the bartender to obtain the beer, and then to the bar to pick it up. After that, the appetizer and salad was announced over the crackling speaker system. Rising once again, I crossed the restaurant to yet another counter and picked up a side salad ($1.99) and garlic rolls (6 for $1.89). I'm all for adventure, but this was ridiculous in a very not-fun sort of way.

[Note: Since you will have been forced to prepay, don't be fooled into tipping because you will not be served. If you're ever in doubt about whether or not to tip, it's clearly a sign that you shouldn't.]

When "Ticket number 109, it's dinner time," was broadcast in its garbled way out of the speaker system, I was less than amused. Another trip. Whoops! Forgot to fill up on water. Back again. By the time I finally sat down to eat, I felt like a bruised billiard ball, having bounced in and out of virtually every corner of the restaurant numerous times to fetch one thing or another. Now I know how dogs feel. If I'd wanted this much hassle, I just would've cooked in.

[Note: Sometimes the best ideas are the simplest ones. Consolidate the counters.]

But yes, there was food, finally.

The salad was fine—lots of Romaine lettuce and a heavily herbed Italian vinaigrette, but the garlic rolls failed to live up to the legendary precedent set by one-time Cumberland Strip denizen Best Italian. A bit firmer and crunchier than I care for, they weren't even softened much by the pool of garlic-laden butter in the bowl's bottom.

Once punctured, the plain calzone I tried deflated faster than a middle-aged man on a Viagra jones ($4.49). The dough supplied absolutely no flavor since there wasn't enough of it, but neither did the filling. The ricotta-heavy mixture of cheese slid out onto the plate without a green flake of oregano or basil to be seen. And the salad dressing had seemed so promising. Oh well.

DiJon's pizza proved somewhat better, based on the selection of a plain pepperoni (all the better to sample the basics with) from among the Hawaiian, Philly, and chicken Alfredo versions ($5.99 for the small, plus $1.29 for the topping). The soft, New York-style pieces were of the type that have a thin but not too-thin crust that necessitates folding each slice in half to keep all the meat and cheese aboard. Again, the herb factor was low, but with a shake of pepper flakes, dried oregano, and a dash of garlic salt it improved markedly.

So, what's the ultimate conclusion? Much in the way that location is a crucial factor in the real estate business, ease of service can make or break a restaurant. Consider DiJon's in need of repair.
 

June 1, 2000 * Vol. 10, No. 22
© 2000 Metro Pulse