(由 Google 翻译)⭐☆☆☆☆ 皇家失望:美食界的“湿漉漉的幸运饼干”
坦白说,我在国外街头小贩那里吃过不少难以下咽的食物,但都没像在“皇家中国”餐厅用餐时那样忐忑不安。“皇家”二字大概是指这家餐厅胆子大到敢把如此平庸的食物端上桌,还要收费吧。
我怀着希望踏入了这美食深渊。餐厅毫不起眼,现在想想,这应该是我的第一个警示。我们先点了猪肉饺子。菜单上说它们“鲜嫩多汁”。然而,厨房对“鲜嫩多汁”的理解显然是“一团干巴巴的香料纸板,裹在厚厚的、像铅一样的饺子皮里”。饺子端上来的时候是温的,蘸酱尝起来就像是用自来水兑了酱油,还带着一丝悔意。
我的主菜点了宫保鸡丁,这道经典菜肴本应融合辣椒、花生和一丝甜味,令人回味无穷。然而端上来的却是一盘惨不忍睹的“犯罪现场”。鸡肉像劣质橡皮一样,软绵绵的,仿佛经历了从冷冻室到炒锅的漫长而悲惨的旅程。花生也早已干裂,失去了酥脆的口感,还带着一丝苦涩的腐臭味。至于酱汁?简直就是一团黏糊糊、单调乏味的糖和玉米淀粉的混合物,完全没有一丝辣味或层次感。与其说是“宫保鸡丁”,不如说是一团“颜色模糊的棕色甜腻糊状物”。
我的同伴抱着一丝希望,点了西兰花牛肉。结果西兰花却变成了一团令人沮丧的橄榄绿色的糊状物,显然在下锅之前就已经被煮得软烂无味了。牛肉又硬又柴,嚼起来费劲,原本应该是一顿美味的餐点,却变成了一场咀嚼的折磨。整道菜都浸泡在一种咸得发腻、毫无特色的棕色酱汁里,这种酱汁随便浇在什么东西上都一样,从鞋底到西兰花都一样。
炒饭完全是敷衍了事。锅底那些寡淡无味、结块的白米饭,拌上几颗冷冻豌豆、胡萝卜和一根孤零零的炒蛋丝。它没有锅气,没有灵魂,除了占盘子空间之外,没有任何存在的意义。
最令人难以忍受的不仅仅是食物本身,更是它所体现出的冷漠。这并非用心烹制、倾注热情,而是带着一种“差不多就行”的敷衍态度拼凑而成。每一口都像是厨师早已放弃生命,厨房只是在例行公事地完成任务。
总而言之,圣罗莎皇家中国餐厅的食物不仅难吃,而且令人难以忘怀,尽管如此,它糟糕得却又让人印象深刻。你离开时不会生气,只会感到悲伤——为那些白白浪费的食材感到悲伤,为你的味蕾感到悲伤,也为那些永远也拿不回来的钱感到悲伤。听我的:开车路过皇家中国餐厅。去超市买份冷冻食品,在车里吃。我保证,那会是一次更地道、更令人满意的用餐体验。
(原文)
⭐☆☆☆☆ A Royal Disappointment: The Culinary equivalent of a Wet Fortune Cookie
Let me be perfectly clear: I have eaten questionable food from street vendors in foreign countries with less trepidation than I felt consuming my meal at Royal China. The "Royal" in the name must be a reference to the sheer audacity it takes to serve food this tragically mediocre and charge money for it.
My journey into this gastronomic abyss began with hope. The restaurant is unassuming, which in retrospect should have been my first clue. We started with the Pork Dumplings. The menu called them "juicy." The kitchen, however, apparently interpreted "juicy" as "a desiccated wad of spiced cardboard encased in a doughy, leaden purse." They arrived lukewarm, with a dipping sauce that tasted like soy sauce cut with tap water and regret.
For my main, I ventured for the Kung Pao Chicken, a classic dish that should sing with the harmonious flavors of chili, peanut, and a hint of sweetness. What arrived was a crime scene on a plate. The chicken had the rubbery, springy texture of a poorly made eraser, suggesting it had taken a long, sad journey from freezer to wok. The peanuts were so stale they had lost their crunch and taken on a faintly bitter, rancid quality. And the sauce? It was a gloopy, one-note assault of sugar and cornstarch, completely devoid of any heat or complexity. It was less "Kung Pao" and more "vaguely brown, sweet sludge."
My dining companion, in a fit of optimism, ordered the Beef with Broccoli. The broccoli was a depressing, olive-drab mush, having been boiled into submission long before it ever saw the wok. The beef was so tough and stringy it required a concerted effort to chew, turning what should have been a pleasant meal into a jaw workout. The entire dish was swimming in a salty, generic brown sauce that could have been ladled onto anything from shoe leather to actual broccoli with the same lack of distinction.
The Fried Rice was an afterthought in every sense of the word. It was the bland, clumpy white rice from the bottom of the pot, tossed with a few frozen peas and carrots and a single, lonely strand of scrambled egg. It had no wok hei, no soul, no reason for existing other than to take up space on the plate.
The final insult wasn't just the food, but the sheer apathy it represented. This wasn't food prepared with care or passion; it was food assembled with a profound sense of "good enough." Every bite tasted like the chef had given up on life years ago and the kitchen was just going through the motions.
In summary, Royal China Santa Rosa serves food that is not just bad; it's profoundly forgettable and yet, somehow, memorably terrible. You will leave not angry, but sad—sad for the ingredients that died in vain, sad for your taste buds, and sad for the money you will never get back. Do yourself a favor: drive past Royal China. Go to the grocery store, buy a frozen dinner, and eat it in your car. I promise you, it will be a more authentic and satisfying culinary experience.