Journal Square Cafe — Restaurant in Jersey City

Bart 1: In all honesty, this place is not worthy of a single star and if I was able to rate it in piles of dog trd I'd give it 5/5. The location epitomizes the word "siole". There is a random door that is more discrete than a dug dealer in an all white school right next door to the McDonald's. You walk inside and there is a hallway with a staircase that reeks of the distinctly Arab stench of body odor and cat urine which I guess provides some level of cultural immersion. There is no indication of where to go so I just crossed my fingers, hoped for the best and prayed that I didn't get red by a brolic black dude named Tyrese as I went up two flights of stairs. The confusion I received at the sight of a children's happy birthday sign at the top of the steps made me briefly forget about the possibility that I might get kidnaed and forced into sexal slavery the rest of my life. Once you enter the door, the decent size of the place eased some of my qualms and I no longer feared having my bthle expanded by a radius of three inches, however the odor remained in the air like malaria in sub-saharan Africa. A more realistic fear upon entering this place was having my earholes violated instead of my ans because the music was absolutely atrocious (and don't get me wrong Arabic music is great but this was just garbage and the speakers were probably just stolen from someone's car). I count my lucky stars as I walk further into the large hall when I am greeted by an unpleasant Egyptian fellow that stairs me down for as long as it takes me to count the amount of health department violations this place probably has to offer. I continue to ponder the possibilities as to why this place hasn't shut down yet as he continues to stare at my friends. After what seemed like an hour of him just counting (and silently judging us), he asked us how many "bibes" we wanted in a thick accent which in my opinion was the only asset this place had. We request two of his finest pipes and charcoals which were about equal in quality to education in an inner city public school. He responds with "Okay, ezz zerty fibe dollar and you haz to buy zree zodas becauze ezz bart uff ze backage" which roughly translates to "even though we advertise $10 per pipe, I'm going to charge you $35 for two and force you to purchase soft drinks". We humbly accept his generous offer and proceed to our table as we peruse through the lengthy list of flavors which was about equal in number to my GPA. We wait about ten minutes for him to bring the pipes, despite the place having about three other customers, and wait another ten minutes for coals which were more like pine cones he found at the park and set on fire. These coals lasted about five minutes each and burned your throat worse than Justin Bieber after his roast. The man put out his hand, which I immediately understood as the universal motion for "give me my money now or I'll give you the worst service you can imagine". I hand the man two $20 bills and he quickly waddles back to the front of the establishment, perhaps thinking I wouldn't notice the absence of my $5 in my hand. I called him back and after pretending not to notice for a while, he realized I wouldn't give up and reluctantly returns to our table for what would be one of the few times he did that night. I asked him why he had not returned my change and he says "Ez my tib you know?" and proceeds to wink at me. I give into his plea to keep my money but request that in return he keeps the coals coming, a decision I would soon regret as his promise was not kept (he probably came three times in the hour that we were there, pretending not to hear us most the time). I also asked our server for some Egyptian tea (because everyone knows you can't smoke shisha without tea) and he asks for another ten dollars for three cups (which were likely smaller than this man's tstcles).

TO...

Bart 2:

Attempting to negotiate, I generously offer another 5 of my precious dollars because I had already given him money that was not his. He says, “I cannot zoo ziss my bozz ez right zere.” Nonetheless, we decided to make the most of the experience and brought a chessboard from a nearby table loaded with different board games (if they had as many flavors as they did games, they may have had more customers than NYC has boroughs). The man yells from across the hall that playing chess would cost us an extra $15 and I begin to wonder if consumption of too much oxygen would soon cost us as well. After asking him how much it costs to use the bathroom, to which I received quite the hardy laugh in response, I proceed to the poorest excuse of a restroom I had seen in my life. The locks were as functional as a ripped cnom and the floor was covered in puddles of ps and the worst, vulgar graffiti I had the misfortune of laying my eyes upon in quite some time. After about an hour, he returned to our table and asked us to leave because we had exceeded the 2 hour limit that all customers must adhere to. However, we were only there for an hour and were never told of this policy. After trying to explain to him the mathematical processes through which I calculated this hour, I got tired of trying to communicate and the hookah was trash anyways so we left. In conclusion, if you want to get fcked at a place that smells worse than your grandma’s toe cheese, this is the place for you, but prepare for ear rpe and sudden, drastic changes in prices. Also, if you don’t like getting fc*k’d on an empty stomach, pick something up from the McDonald’s next door (eat before you get inside because they’ll probably charge you more than you paid for it to bring it inside) because the food there does not only look unappetizing, but probably requires you to sell a few vital organs before being able to afford...

I'm hesitant to play the antisemitism card, but wow, I will definitely be letting the Antidefamation League know tomorrow about the decreasingly servicable and kind sercice climaxing tonight and building recently. A few hours earlier, a drunk acquaintance made a little mess stepping out the passenger seat (several cars further down the street than the car) and after I'd dropped him off, I returned to try and help cleanup. So all's good the first afw times with brush and vacuum to be a thoughtful neighbor. The third time I'd forgot my lighter - usually they're happy to offer a hot hookah coal. I have progressed from an infrequent to nearly daily customer for coffee over recent years - it may have been my foolish vision to try and freely express my faith on Yom Kippur last year wearing a Kippah & Talis - that deadpan the acting manager looked at me and said no cigarette smoking is allowed [Meanwhile the majority of their clints & staff chain-smoke cigs there every day] or the day inwhen a loved one passed I reluctantly war a Yarmulka, or perhaps my Chai neckless had accidentally slipped from No explaination - the acting manager just askes me again to grab my bag and leave an and I proceed to leave cordially.

But I think this has nothing to do with faith or religion but clearly in their eyds, It's me as a white non-Muslim...