In the past several weeks I've had very bad luck with ordering food for delivery. As a New Yorker, this is particularly distressing, as we tend to order takeout more frequently than we turn on our own stoves. It all started with a grilled chicken salad: I asked for the balsamic vinaigrette on the side, it arrived soused in a dressing so thick it bordered on mayonnaise. I practically had to spoon through it just to find the lettuce. Then, I got a falafel platter with ho-hum hummus instead of the babaganoush I had been craving. Finally—and this was the worst of all—my sashimi entree arrived all by its lonesome, without the miso soup. I have no problem sending...
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