The Buzz is Bought and the Hype is Fake

Localebrity
May 28
2 min read

I feel like Regina George mid-meltdown—taking my rage straight to the burn book.

Paid influencers and accounts like Dallasites flood our feeds with places we’re supposed to be excited about. The Charlotte has racked up glowing reviews—including one from D Magazine that convinced me to go.

And it’s a perfect example of why I started this blog: because the buzz is bought, and the hype is fake. Now let's get into my no good, very bad day at The Charlotte.

First Impressions

Before I hit them with the flex—the staff was genuinely kind. I don’t want to tear down a business; I have a conscience. But if you’re gonna slap that fat of a price tag on the menu, you are subject to my wrath.

I walked into the beautifully designed space and was greeted by... life-sized teddy bears seated at tables. Cute—at first. Then I saw a woman sprawled across one taking a selfie… and 30 minutes later, that same bear passed to another table.

Sharing stuffed animals with strangers? Gross. Their menu says you can even buy one of these germ-ridden mascots for $65. Hard pass.

The Crowd

Tacky. Forty-somethings posted up at the upstairs bar—which, by the way, is inside the dining room—ripping vapes like it’s a hookah lounge. No shade to vapers... but even I know when to keep it in my purse.

This place markets itself as upscale? It felt like someone lighting up at R+D’s bar—absolutely unhinged.

The Drinks

I started with their featured Hugo Spritz (already dragged that in another blog, so let’s keep it moving). Sent it back. Asked for their best cocktail. Now remember… the theme here is tacky, so naturally they served me their top seller: the Porn Star Martini. Two sips in and I felt the hangover creeping. $18 gone.

I’m usually not this harsh, but that’s the same price as a cocktail at Mister Charles. Just sit with that for a second.

The Food

My outfit was too good to waste, so I decided to stay and try the food. Big mistake.

The crab legs? Grainy. Not in a crab-can-be-tricky kind of way—more like “these were frozen, thawed, and refrozen” too many times.

Now I really need to see my therapist—because apparently, I hadn’t suffered enough. I ordered the $23 Spicy Vodka Pasta. Shell pasta, like straight out of a box. Overcooked to a limp sadness. The sauce? Basically Tabasco in a trench coat pretending to be vodka.

You could recreate the entire dish using nothing but what’s in a frat boy’s pantry.