The One Two Punch

They often say that you must go to a restaurant a few times before you can truly know if it's good or not. I must add to this by saying that you must also go on an 'off night' as well as an 'on' night. With the restaurant Punch, it wasn't until I went on a Friday night that I really learned of the restaurant's character and I can probably define the entire experience as weird. I had been there twice previous, once on a random Monday at around 9 and another time during a holiday weekend with a large rowdy group. Both of those experiences had been fine. Pretty good food, service that was okay but all around decent. When I returned on a Friday night, however, it was a totally different playing field. The host literally made me feel awkward. I think I've actually repressed some of the small talk he shared with me but let's just say I kind of wanted to stab myself in the eye. Our server, while admittedly a newbie, would awkwardly stare as he talked wide-eyed. When I asked him how the rigatoni was he replied, "I don't know ...hold on I'll get someone whose had it." Not exactly the response I was looking for and then when the strange host/manager arrived at the table to describe the bolognese as "moist because it's made with duck fat", I was severely put off. Way to describe the dish and make it sound appetizing. There's only so many times that you can smile and nod and try to pretend that you don't feel weird about what just happened or what was said. I think I'll go with the scallops. The pinot by the glass was pretty bad which I was surprised about since Punch is affiliated with the wine bar upstairs; the food was standard as usual and would've been a hell of a lot more enjoyable had I not been aching to get out of the restaurant to avoid any more strange situations. When the bill finally arrived there was added items on the bill that had not been eaten. I don't deem this as a big mistake, but the fact that this forced me to interact with our awkward waiter and the host again heightened my anxiety to get the hell out. When we finally left, I couldn't have been happier--now I know that the third times not always a charm.