I broke my frugal phase when a friend bought herself a ticket to SoCal and bought me a ticket to Abigaile.
Few things are better than catching up with a friend, and our rekindled friendship started strong with a silky Fresh Burrata. The burrata brought out a whole flavor bouquet of lemon, peaches, and wild arugula, atop tasty toasty points.
The burrata had me eager for more, but my pleasure didn't last long. The conversation never got dry, but the Plancha Baby Octopus did. The sharp mojo verde negated that error quite nicely, but it wasn't enough to put an unremarkable "Portuguese" sausage on the map.
The Roasted Brussels were just as bad. So shredded we thought we ate a cabbage slaw, with so much vinegar we thought we ate a lemon.
But our friendship was too strong to be soured, and stayed hearty like the Poutine. The lamb belly had the potential to build on the cheese, but it fell a little flat. I enjoyed the dish, but I'm not sure the Canadians would claim it.
To say that Abigaile is without merit would be a gross injustice. The free-standing brewery rocks a five-beer Flight, and if I had a nickel for every time I heard their cocktails praised, I could have paid for my entire meal. But the quality of that meal was definitely not a problem of price. Because few restaurants have blown my mind, but few have left me as deeply disappointed as Abigaile.