Guzman y Gomez - Ascot — Restaurant in Western Australia

Overpriced, undercooked, and slow service. I usually love GyG, but the Ascot store is terrible. Avoid it at all costs, eat at Zambreros next door instead.

I ordered through the drive-thru on this occasion. The drive-thru was empty when I arrived, and I sill had to wait fifteen minutes to receive my food. I could see at least four young staff members through the drive-thru window standing around, doing nothing but muck about while I waited for my food.

My chips were stone cold from the second they were handed to me. I didn't say anything at the time because my chips are usually cold by the time I get home from GyG anyway, so I chose the overlook it. Others might be more disatisfied.

When I got home, I discovered my enchiladas had next to no filling inside it besides rice, and the rice was inedibly undercooked. If that wasn't bad enough, the corn chips served with the enchilada were stale. A miserable effort considering the high price.

On top of being overpriced, I was overcharged. My order didn't display on the drive-thru screen, so I couldn't chdck if my order was correct. I was charged for substituting cheese with sauce (which is a free alternative GyG offers), even after the cashier specifically said I wasn't being charged for it.

This isn't the first time I've had a bad experience with GyG Ascot either. They've gotten my order wrong twice in the past, the rice has been similarly undercooked before, and I've been overcharged for substituting cheese for sauce on several occasions too.

An overall terrible experience. I won't be eating at GyG Ascot again, and I suggest others...

I came to Guzman y Gomez craving Mexican magic. I left questioning the meaning of life — and not in a good way.

I should’ve known it was doomed from the moment I saw him behind the counter, wearing his hat like it lost a fight with a lawnmower and smiling like someone who’d just unplugged the ice machine for fun.

I ordered a burrito. Simple enough. He nodded, squinted at the screen like it was in ancient hieroglyphs, then asked me three times if I said “beef” or “beans.” I said beef. He gave me tofu. TOFU. I didn’t even know that was an option.

When I pointed it out, he offered me “extra napkins” as compensation — as if paper towels were going to fix the emotional damage.

Then came the drink. I ordered a Coke. He handed me a Sprite. I said, “Mate, this is Sprite.” He said, “Same vibe though, yeah?” No. No, it is not.

To top it off, he forgot the guac. You know, the soul of the burrito. The creamy green glue that holds the universe together. When I asked for it, he gave me a single sachet of ketchup. KETCHUP. I nearly called the police.

Was it busy? No. Was he distracted? Also no. He was just vibing — vibing his way through customer service like a man who’s never eaten a burrito in his life.

Look, I love the guy. But if you see him working the line, turn around. Go home. Make toast. Eat cereal. Do literally anything else. Not to mention he put a pump of his special sauce on my chips.

Unless, of course, you enjoy culinary betrayal...

After a seemingly endless 20-minute wait for my food at Guzman y Gomez, I was met with a culinary catastrophe that left me questioning my life choices. As I eagerly anticipated my meal, little did I know that I was about to embark on a gastronomic journey.

Upon finally receiving my order, I was greeted with a plate of disappointment. The food had already succumbed to the chilly embrace of neglect.. The Burito meat, purportedly the highlight of the meal, tasted more like a misguided attempt at recreating the unique flavor profile of Shredded South African Bull testicles. To say it was an acquired taste would be an understatement.

The cashier, who seemed more suited to starring in a reality show about customer service nightmares, added insult to injury. Not only did they manage to fumble the transaction by handing me the wrong change, but they also decided to enlighten me on the alleged carpentry skills of Abraham Lincoln. Attempting to correct the error, I dared to request the correct amount of change, only to be met with a disapproving glare. Apparently, my interest in accurate finances clashed with their passion for historical carpentry anecdotes.

To wash down the regrettable meal, I ordered a beverage that could only be described as a fresh scoop of Chernobyl's Nuclear waste. The drink tasted like a concoction brewed in the depths of a radioactive disaster zone, leaving me yearning for the days when my taste buds were...