I walk past your restaurant every day and I gloat when I see you have no customers. I had a bad feeling the first time I visited. I paid for my food and put a big tip in the tip jar. You didn't thank me, didn't smile, didn't fucking care. I thought maybe you were having a bad day so I gave you another chance. This time, you charged me $8 for a sandwich I could have made myself for a buck. I mean, seriously, your bread is barely a step above Wonder Bread. Nevertheless, I left a generous tip again. This time, you grunted. I've watched your pathetic attempts to bring in customers. You've cluttered our sidewalk with more and more signs touting shiny new television sets, $2 happy hour beers, and new, fresh ciabatta rolls. You know what? Big televisions won't attract customers if you're acting like a bunch of rude assholes. Your upgraded bread is too little, too late, and I'll forego your cheap beer and spend more at the place down the street where they show some appreciation for my business. Besides, your décor is as sterile as a hospital. A "happy hour" in an environment so void of personality is fucking hilarious. Take a hint, file for bankruptcy and get out of our neighborhood.