Eating Out in Atlanta: La Grotta of Buckhead

Fine Dining in Atlanta is Bollocks

Not the Dog's Bollocks but Bollocks proper. Take a night out at La Grotta of Buckhead, a Northern Italian-American restaurant that has beguiled locals since 1978, and enjoys a rep as one of the best joints in town. Located in the basement of a 1960's-era apartment block, it's definitely not for scruffs and walk-ins. Like Rules back home in London, or any high-end restaurant of note, it's best to dress up and book a table well in advance. 

I'd eaten at La Grotta once before in 2017. The diner was packed out with gammon dudes and mutton caked in rouge. Being English, we proceeded to mock patrons like we wuz Hooray Henrys: "I say, is he wearing that necktie for a dare?"... "What's she gonna do for a face when the monkey wants its arse back?"... " And so on and so forth. Sober as a parson, but swearing like a trooper, the abiding memory was the service. Our waiter, a camp, beardy, little munchkin, kept jumping in-and-out of view like a Jack in the Box, asking after our "appetizer" (starter) and "entree" (main course). He was obviously cruising for a big ass tip off of them-there Lime Juicers on Table 9.

However, this night at La Grotta we had booked a table 6-weeks in advance to celebrate our 25th anniversary. Piped down the rickety Otis lift to the bowels of the building, there was a faint smell of damp and a torchlit passage to the restaurant. Lo and Behold!  A queue (line) of persons! Foolish walk-ins!  Step aside for La Contessa and La Cunte!  

We zeroed in on the Major Dominatrix, a blonde, aged 35-40, in a tight, dark blue floral dress, conservative make-up and tied back Mafia hair-do. "We have you booked in," she said resassuringly, looking down at the meaty, Necronomicon leather binder. "Your table will be ready in 10-15 minutes."  No probs. Is there a bar to wait and slurp cocktails?  No, she sighed, it was full. I glanced back at the folks lined up either side of the sloping restaurant entrance...they weren't walk-ins...they too had booked...and they were WAITING?!? 

From the interior of the restaurant, the clunk, clink and clank of glass and silverwear and the mwah mwah mwah of a hundred overlapping conversations. No space at the bar. And no cheery Italian with a tray of champagne flutes and canapes. None of that bollocks for the sad cunt punters in the queue (line). The clock ticks. 5 minutes... 10 minutes...15 minutes... I'm beginning to wish we'd gone to Planet Bollywood for dinner, a local Indian restaurant on Edgewood. 20 minutes... 25 minutes... 30 fucking minutes and STILL no table. Cunty Bollocks! What the Fuckety Fuck was going on 'ere?  

Opposite, a young couple.  This was Karen's favorite restaurant in Atlanta, and, quite possibly, the world (Yanks don't travel, ya see.)  It was the only night Henry and Karen could have off and there was a babysitter at home waiting for their return. To make matters worse, Karen was visibly pregnant and made to stand. No chair. No concern. No glass of fizz to soothe things over. Yeah.... Even a loyal punter at La Grotta is made to feel a complete and utter cunter (THAT'S POETRY!) 

Behind me in the line (queue), a gaggle of Eurotrash and ritzy Lebanese. High rollers. Made to wait like civilians outside a nightclub. It brought to mind Lazy Dog at the Notting Hill Arts Club over the road from yours truly in London. They made punters wait all day outdoors on a Sunday, fenced in and kettled behind a metal barrier, drinking, smoking, snorting, buzzing, puking, and pissing in the wind, rain, hail and snow. Ripple dissolve to the present. Alas, no joy here at La Grotta of Buckhead. 30 minutes... 40 minutes... 50 minutes... next time Jay Rayner's in town I'm bringing him here to do a hatchet job on these Cunta Nostras. 

After 55 minutes and some-odd seconds, it occured to us that the restaurant had overbooked. A bald chap with the air of a manager came out with an excuse to all and sundry: customers were grazing and they could not free up tables for incoming guests. Righty-ho, but what a drinky-poos at the bar? Nope. Still no space... Blast those slow eating rednecks of Buckhead! But, for some odd and inexplicable reason, dining out back in London came to mind. You know, where the waiter, some out of work actor or somesuch, would say in a snarkly little tone of voice, "I need the table back in an hour..." Oblivious to the very real possibility that I might overstay my welcome, put my boots up on the table, grope the waitresses, sing old marching songs, then trash the joint but pay for damages (coz that's what a Gent does, innit?) 

After 60 of your earth minutes, we were finally shown to the table we'd booked 6-weeks ago. Not even a complimentary glass of shampoo could contain the fire in the pit of the gut. Perhaps a bottle. No. Maybe a magnum of 1947 Krug Vintage? Perhaps, perhaps not. I gazed up at the decor and the subdued lighting of the floor, it resembled the sort of steak house where Capo Di Tutti Capis' get Capped. I adjourned to the men's to wash the paws. No .38 special with tape on the grip behind the toilet cistern. Bummer. 

For the finest Italian-What-Ever in Atlanta, the menu was sparse. For my "appetizer", the fried calamari arrived in a limp, uninspired marinara-like sauce; ditto the medallions of veal, served in a less than piquant moat with burnt cauliflower ears "on the side". Had the one hour wait killed the palate? I dunno, Guv. Nonetheless, the food was bland. Had the kitchen overbooked chefs? Or was this old joint trading on a rep that it could no longer live up to the reality of a Post-Covid world (yawn)? Whatever the issue, whatever the fantasy whipped up in the mind's eye, our night out at La Grotta was one of the worst in living memory. Will I be going back for seconds? Get the fuck outta here!