Alexandra Michalopoulou
The dolma was a disgrace to all Mediterranean cuisines that pride themselves on offering dolmas. Apart from the fact that it had meat in it - which is not unheard of, but definitely, right off the bat gives "I've no idea what I'm doing so I'm gonna slap something with a strong flavour to save face" vibes - everything else about it was objectively offensive. The leaves were thick and hard (and hardly cooked), with the texture of maple leaves, rather than vine leaves, and the bitter taste of grass. The leaf itself was chewy and indestructible, it's veins felt like wire. The leaves should be hand picked, thoroughly examined, and for the love of god, steamed before wrapping. The rice as well was undercooked, sticking with the "earthy tones" of the wrong kind, felt more like pebbles. It was clearly not sautéed before hand. The absence of mint and onion at this stage (or any stage for that matter) made sure that the rice will remain plain, flavourless and insulting. And since this step was skipped, there was clearly no need for olive oil. But I'm sure, since this is a "Mediterranean" restaurant it must have had it somewhere. But more like someone whispering above the pot "olive oil" rather than actually using it. The size of the dolma, which traditionally is meant to be bite size, was upsetting. I've never, in my happily dolma-full life of 28 years, had to cut a dolma in thirds to attempt eating it. The wrapping was surprisingly tight. Which came in handy after dinner, when we decided to play football. The dolma didn't not come undone. And all of this would be forgiven and forgotten. But they poked this Asia minor bear, yours truly, by committing the worst culinary crime of all. They added cinnamon.
