Restaurant Review : Carlyle Restaurant - part of a Rosewood Hotel

     Spiffy uniforms worn by idiots.  That's the way to describe the inferior level of service at the dowdy Carlyle Restaurant / Hotel.  It's a shame because I had such high expectations... as high as the hotel's tower.

Except for Upper East Siders, who fear leaving their zip code for tuxedoed parties, many would say that the Carlyle has lost its luster.  Yet, Lewis and I dined there for a Sunday supper.

As you can see below, the building itself is not much to look at, lacking street-level attractiveness.  

It simply looks like an old apartment building.

Only the top eighth of the building gathers some Art Deco styling...

Three eating venues exist.

1). Cafe Carlyle, if you want to pay $165-$250 per seat to watch Woody Allen play the clarinet (he lives nearby in the East 70s).

2). Bemelmans Bar, named after the artist of the its murals (storybook characters from "Madeline").  Along with a 24-carat gold-leafed ceiling, its bartenders have worked there for decades.

3). Carlyle Restaurant, a jacket-required, supposedly "fine dining" eatery, located just off the lobby (seen below).

     I should've known the service would be poor, when I approached the hotel entrance and neither doorman actually opened the door for me... or greeted me.  Passing the vestibule, I descended to the lobby... where nobody existed.  How does a hotel lack employees at the Front Desk or Lobby?  Having arrived ahead of Lewis, I perched myself in a side room, near the elevators.  The picture below shows a fireplace in that room, but it wasn't lit during that chilly March night.

     All the orange seating is worn, with sagging cushions.  Not attractive at all for a Big-City Hotel in the most expensive part of town.  I'd expect to see that at a suburban nursing home.  Then again, the average age of guests seems quite elderly, so maybe they intended for that "look".
     It was quite comical--me awaiting Lewis but nearly face-to-face with the two Latino elevator operators.  They didn't greet me or even smile.  One sneezed, I said "God bless you", and he merely stared at me.  A Caucasian couple approached and greeted him by name, "Hi Frank, good to see you again!" He didn't seem to recognize them and merely said, "Oh, hi, yes come on in."  Next, a Latino bellboy strode in, ignored me and spoke loudly in Spanish to the remaining elevator operator.  An unhappy woman in a black/white maid uniform came along to put votive candles on the tables.  Just as an old tuxedoed man came in, talking on his cellphone about hunting trips and sexy women... Lewis arrived to save me.  We swept into the restaurant, seen below.

     Lewis made our reservation to sit near the fireplace, but it was non-functioning (with a crude piece of black sheet-metal covering the front).  There didn't seem to be any waiters... only two white-liveried "food runners" and a busboy to clear tables.  Michael, the captain, introduced himself and sat us.  Nobody offered to bring out coats/bags to the "Coat Check", which was odd.  Only after we folded them on the third seat at our table-for-two did it occur to Michael.  We politely declined.  Another young man with dark glasses (perhaps the maître d') brought menus.  Those two guys in suits did all the tasks that waiters usually do.
     We ordered glasses of bubbles to start.  The kid in glasses poured but had brought a nearly-empty bottle, so after filling mine, he only filled 1/4 of Lewis' glass.  So unprofessional.  What idiot does that at such a high-end restaurant?  Leaving us for several minutes, he came back with a new bottle and poured another full glass.

The olive bread was tasty but not warm.  The butter was easily spreadable.  While listening to Michael recite the Daily Specials, we realized that he'd brought the wrong menus... so he departed and exchanged them.  He asked if we wanted something to drink... we gestured to our bubbly flutes and told him that we would order drinks after our first appetizer.  He said, "Okay."  Such verbal formality.
     To start, we ordered the Foie Gras, which was perfectly firm with toasted brioche, just as Lewis loves it. 

     I asked for the wine list, which is quite pricey and not well-rounded.  No one reviewed the wine list with me.  No member of staff proffered suggestions.  Nonetheless, I spotted something interesting... but nobody ever came to take our order!  Nor did Michael ever return to our table for our cocktail order.  The restaurant wasn't busy: only 8 tables were occupied.  They simply don't know how to manage their time.  They don't visit each table.  
     The food runners brought out our next appetizer, two scallops for each of us, over risotto.  To give you an idea of menu prices, it cost $44.00.  The level of service failed to match the price.

     Neither Michael nor the young guy wearing glasses ever visited our table again to ask how we were doing... or take our drink orders.  It's usually customary for a server to notice when the guest's glass nears "empty" to offer something more.  Not at the Carlyle.  Michael gave all of his time to dote on an elderly couple across the room.  He practically tripped over himself to lean in and keep checking on them.  They're probably regulars at the hotel.  But, they didn't seem to care, nor did they finish anything that arrived at their table (except the big martini).  It reminded me of how Buick lavished attention on its dying client-base, neglecting new generations of car buyers.  Michael also spent time cutting a birthday cake at another picture-taking table of laughing tourists (instead of letting the staff do it in the kitchen).
     Falsely assuming that we had eaten our main course, the busboy, cleared our entire table--including the utensils, uneaten bread, and salt & pepper shakers.  Why were they so confused?  Why didn't either captain pay attention?  Nobody "marked" our table before the next course arrived.  So, an embarrassed food runner immediately came with a mies-en-place tray, to lay new utensils.  When we finally made eye contact with the captain, we gave an annoyed look, but he merely gave us a flummoxed one... without any action.
     Then, our entrees were put down: Coq au Vin for me; Halibut for Lewis. Neither was impressive, and plenty of top-tier French restaurants nearby surpass their recipe.

     Finally, Michael saw us eating our third dish of the evening and hurried over.  As if he suddenly remembered that we were there.  "Did you want your cocktails?"  Lewis sternly said "No, thank you.  They won't blend with our dinners, at this point."  "How about some wine?", Michael asked.  "I've already started eating, so it seems pointless," I replied with direct eye contact.  No, he didn't offer complimentary beverages, to apologize for his error of absenteeism.  In fact, he never apologized for not attending to our table.  
     For dessert, I'd pre-ordered the Dark Chocolate Soufflé, which was fine.  Lewis chose black/white Panna Cotta, alongside tiny Madeline cookies.  

     Next, we had the ordeal of waiting for our check.  For 20 minutes, neither captain visited our table!  Michael pulled out the chair for the old woman across the room.  He bent over many times for a drunkenly rowdy group of 4 tourists (one wasn't wearing a jacket).  We sat at our empty table.  Noise and laugher from the adjoining Bar poured into the "supposedly-elegant" dining room and overpowered the meek overhead music.
     All the while, "Glasses" spent most of his evening standing sideways near an elderly man sitting alone.  Comically, it seemed as if he was trying to flirt with the old man (who kept looking at our table more than the young man with glasses did).  "Glasses" seemed to force the conversation with the old man, "Yes, Mr. So-and-so, it must be nice in Palm Beach this time of year."  Then, he'd fetch something for the man... then suddenly start again, "As I was saying, Mr. S0-and-so, I really love the new art exhibit."  Instead of looking sideways at the old man, he might as well put his back to the dining room... considering the total lack of service he gave everyone else.  Then, I heard the grinning young man say, "Well, sir, I hope the next time we speak, it's in Saint Moritz."
     Finally, I had enough.  I waved down a food runner and asked for our check to be brought over.  Several minutes later, without our check, I finally saw the "Glasses" glance at us.  Immediately, I pointed at him and beckoned him with my finger.  Then, I assertively pointed at him again, and gruffly waved him toward me.  I sternly said, "I hate to interrupt your personal conversation that you've been having for the last 20 minutes, but I want our check.  I want it now.  I want you to finally do your job.  Do you understand me?"  He stammered and walked away.  The food runner came from the other way with our check.  
     Gratuity had already been included.  Perhaps that's why the service was so poor: they already knew they'd get paid.  Michael finally came over and said, "Sorry about the check delay; there's just one of me.  I hope everything else was alright."  Looking steady at him, I angrily said, "You are incompetent.  You neglected our table for most of the night.  With this place mostly empty, you had plenty of time, but we didn't seem to matter to you--or your clueless counterpart.  Tonight was a special night for us, and you dampened it.  Do either of you think you could've done a better job?"
     He stood speechless.  No apology, no waived fees, nothing.  
     I looked him up and down, "Michael, there is no reason for such a lack of courtesy, and I've never seen such poor service."  
    We left.  Behind me, I heard him testily talk to "Glasses", "Come over here, I need to speak to you!"
     The bellboy was doing bend-over stretches in the lobby, which seemed against decorum.  Nobody opened the front door for us.  Standing outside to put my gloves on, a doorman suddenly exited after us.  "Do you need any help?"  No.  Too late.  We shan't return to that cesspool of bad service.

     The doormen at Lewis' building are much nicer.  Lewis has the opinion that the heyday for the Carlyle died, as many things do that remain in this city.  
     Let's see if my email to the hotel manager does any good.  (*Update, months later, we never received a reply.  It's a poor indication of how Rosewood Hotels allows its New York branch to operate... as many luxury brands let their locations in NYC behave badly without oversight.  Truly a poisoned city).