Diane and I decided to try some place different. We love Thai food and have been in search of a good restaurant here in Tallahassee. We decided to give Reangthai Thai Restaurant a try.
The music. The scariest thing about this music is that it takes you a while to realize you are hearing it again. When the realization strikes, nothing else matters. Not your food, not your drink. Outside of a hook that worms its way through your ear and into your brain, everything else about the track is unremarkable. It sounds like a generic ringtone, stretched into a full song, and then played endlessly.
I have a theory that this place is cursed or haunted. Its decor is from another time. Its staff are held here as thralls. The infernal source of their bondage? That damn song. If anyone stopped it from looping, then this whole restaurant would fade away like ghosts on a 90’s television show.
The service is prompt. More proof that these people are part of some unholy machine.
The waiter reads his well-rehearsed lines. I know they are rehearsed, because the entire restaurant is as big as a closet. I heard him give the same one-liners and dessert pitches to at least three other tables before it was our turn. Like the music eroding my brain cells one complete loop at a time, this was turning out to be the Groundhog Day of restaurants.
I ordered a Coke to ward off a headache. The menu listed it as $2.00 – acceptable for the kind of restaurant this one is pretending to be. That is, until I heard the familiar sounds of a can opening. There would be no refills here. The horror sets in.
We ordered an appetizer named Thai Ladies. The presentation was lovely. Each had a large piece of shrimp, wrapped in spring roll paper, fried, and laid on a slice of fresh pineapple. Each roll was also accompanied by a forest of cilantro in with the shrimp. You couldn’t taste anything else, even with the peanut sauce.
The music continues to play.
Our food comes out and it looks beautiful. I ordered the Duck Pad Thai; Diane got the Crispy Duck. The duck is tasty, if dry, for both dishes. Still, it is duck. How often do you have duck?
The music continues to play havoc on our brains. If the ambiance were any more offensive, then I would need to be escorted out by EMTs to the nearest hospital, my body broken and twisted from the violence of the decor.
I finish eating. Without the masticating of duck and noodles, the music gets louder. Diane continues picking at her plate, but fits of laughter show the music is working. Soon, her sanity will be stripped from her, and her soul will belong to this place. Like the staff and the table behind us with people claiming to be regulars, she will be enslaved to this Hell.
She quits eating. I think she stopped to save our lives. The music loops again. I laugh with her. The duck left on her plate laughs too. Our sanity is slipping.
The waiter comes by our table. He starts talking up their star dessert. I finish his lines in my head before he does. Is this how this cursed place trains its staff? It must be.
He asks if we need a box for Diane’s plate. It is a sign that we need to go. A holy sign. The music starts its revolution around the sun for the nth time.
I spent $60+ dollars to have my eyes and ears offended for an hour and a half. No duck is worth this kind of horror. Not even a succulent fried duck covered in spicy noodles and crushed peanuts.
We leave. We laugh. We hear the music forever.