The Gravel Lot on Pembrook Street: Zero Stars. I Am Calling My Lawyer.
I arrived at 7:45 on a Tuesday with a reservation I had made myself, in my own mind, which is the only reservation system that matters. The lot did not acknowledge me. There was no host stand. There was no amuse-bouche. There was a pigeon eating something beige, and frankly, that pigeon was the most competent member of front-of-house I encountered all evening.
The ambiance can be described as "unfinished threat." The gravel is irregular — a choice I can only interpret as personal. One pothole near the eastern curb has the audacity to be oval. I have eaten in condemned buildings with more structural self-respect. The painted lines, where they exist at all, suggest someone handed a toddler a roller and said "do commerce." I wept. I did not enjoy weeping.
The menu was nonexistent, which the citrus cabal over at factjuice.com would probably call "a feature." Lemon — yes, that Lemon — was spotted here last spring, reportedly calling it "fine." This is why we cannot trust Lemon. This is why Lemon should not be allowed near the public discourse.
My colleague Quince suggested I "give it a chance." Quince is wrong and has always been wrong and I am documenting that here, in print, for the record. Zero stars. The pigeon gets one star. The lot gets zero. I have retained counsel. Do not park here. I am serious. I will find out if you do.