Popular Brunch Spot Hostess Reviews Hastings, Party of Four

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You might think you are eating breakfast, but you are wrong.

WEST END, GA–As a 23 year old who has been working here for six months, I am a veteran in this hostess game. I’ve seen everything from parties of one willing to sit at the bar to parties of eight who think they’re gonna get seated together. Oh really, you want to move one of Shauna’s four tops together with Cody’s four top? I don’t fucking think so, buster. There are rules in this here shit.

People seem to think they are doing us a favor bringing their stupid faces and stomachs in here to buy breakfast. It’s ten AM on a Sunday, you guys. Look around. Oh, wait. That’s right, you can’t look around because it’s too fucking busy. Know what that means? That means it’s my way or the highway.

Which brings me to Hastings, party of four, consisting of Dad, Mom, grubby looking kid, and a fourth who was in absentia.

Dad seemed to think he was going to be seated when all of his party hadn’t arrived. Dude, are you out of your quite-literally-mother-fucking mind? This here is Sunday Brunch in Atlanta Georgia, a.k.a. the Big Show, a.k.a. Prime Time. You’re more likely to hop to the top of a kidney waiting list.

The fourth finally arrived, and held everything up by ordering a latte before he got seated. Really, guy? Really? Ur eee aaa ull eeee? Really? Literally? Really?

Spoiler alert. It’s not our job to cater to you. We’ve got vaguely industrial ambiance, a heavily tattooed staff, and the sweetest typography ever artfully arranged on a menu. Our work is done. Now your job is to fill seats, tip heavy, and get the fuck out. If you happen to get an egg or two down your neck in the process, that’s your business.

I would rate Hastings party of Four as a two out of five stars. For one thing, they were over 40. They should be eating at home. Dad was wearing white socks and running shoes, and Mom seemed to think it was Shauna’s job to make sure there were knives on the table. Add to that a grubby kid who is a messy eater and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. Not a fan.