Berkserker Reviews Continental Midtown

Berserker pulls no punches as he reviews Continental Midtown:

Continental
1801 Chestnut St.
Philadelphia, PA 19102
215-567-1800

I made my first-and-last visit to the Continental on Market St. in '97. On that sweltering Friday night, I had my first-and-last martinis (7 in 2 hours on an empty stomach, yuck), my first-and-last drunk-driving episode, and - thank god - my first-and-last projectile vomiting episode (I christened the sidewalk on Spring Garden St.)

Last nite was another Friday nite, another Continental visit - this time to the new one on Chestnut St. This version has all of what I've come to expect from these Stephen Starr eateries: neat decor, passable food, New York prices, and even more New York attitude.

The hostess with the short (blonde?) hair looked us up and down for 5 minutes before she got one of her flunkees to come upstairs and seat us - the place was empty, what the f was she waiting for?

And really - did they have to sit the three of us all the way in the back corner, on the 2nd floor, so far away from the bar crowd? I got the feeling that, if she could have, the hostess would have seated us at the Chinese restaurant across the street. And that's only because the Leper Colony Bar & Grill was booked solid for the night.

Even before the hostess encounter, there was a waiter who rudely asked us to move from a table because it was reserved and "I have already set it five times...harumphhh!!" We even said we were ordering food so could we stay, but he still had his panties in a bunch, "Sorry, it's reserved..."

The wait staff all have the same outfit - a Bobby Brady stripped shirt and white Addidas sneakers. I guess they're going for the it's-so-uncool-it's-cool look, but trust me, it's just f-ing stupid. I guarantee that the staff will have new threads pretty soon, and maybe the person who came up with it will get grounded.

Our food wasn't bad. We had the hummus and pita bread, and the appetizer plate for two. There were lobster rolls, dumplings, and some other round things sitting on slices of ginger. The sauces were good, if just a little too sweet.

But we scarfed it all down, along with some nice bread rolls and our Coors Light and Heineken ($10.50 for two beers, ouch). Our friend's martinis were weak, expensive, and tiny.

Our waitress gal Brooke did a nice job - friendly, prompt, and she didn't seem to mind tracking me down later at the bar when she realized that I didn't sign my credit card slip. Thanks for being friendly, Brooke - it was refreshing. Oh - tell the bartender chick upstairs to learn the prices of the beers, so she doesn't have to go into the kitchen to ask. Two words for her - print a price list and put it under the bar.

Well, after our meal, our martini-drinking companion left us, so it was just me and Mr. Lunch Box. On his trip to the bathroom, he heard talk of a deck upstairs. Let's go! he said, so we headed downstairs, which by this time (7pm) was packed.

I headed down another flight of stairs to the bathrooms in the basement. Each of the bathrooms has a neat 2-way mirror - the boys can see the girls, and vice-versa. I'm not sure which restaurant they ripped off for the idea, but it works well here.

While I was in the bathroom, I got all tangled up in the ceiling-to-floor beads as I tried to take a piss in the urinal. I just wanted to scream Marcia-Marcia-Marcia! and click my heels fast 3-times, hoping that I would be transported to the bus stop for the 27 bus so I could get home and watch the Birds on TV with my pop.

But alas, it didn't work - I was still in the bathroom when I opened my eyes. So, I slogged back up the steps to re-join Mr. Lunch Box. As if on cue, a chubby guy with a headset asked us to move away from the bathroom steps area, " I gotta clear some room here, you mind? Please!"

Not at all - we left 20 seconds later.

I was amused to see an actual line of people outside, looking anxious to get in. There were some very hot chicks in line, much too good-looking and cool for this place. But who knows? Maybe they were there to meet the 70 year-old guy in the Bermuda shorts and Phillies cap upstairs. I think he was heading-up the VIP room.

Standing outside, feeling fortunate that this place only stole $80 of our money tonite, I protested to Mr. Lunch Box that we bag the deck, but he insisted - and hey, he is the boss after all, so we rounded the corner and saw yet another line, this place was just swamp-assed with wannabes. That was it - time to call it a nite.

All in all, the nite added up to another first-and-last I will add to my list: a visit to the Continental on Chestnut St.