f you really seek the coolest places in town, you know that there is a certain something that a place should have to grab you. In the absence of that “je ne sais quoi” (that’s French for “hot bartender”), a place must never sport little annoyances that could actually discourage a second visit. Subeez Café on Homer, a faux-popular once-in-awhile pre-club booze and veggie-burger joint, fails to hold its posture against its faults.

There is a weird affectedness to the staff that rubs me all wrong. And don’t get me wrong about getting rubbed wrong. I love an evening of banter with a glib, cynical, clever waiter or waitress as much as anyone. In fact, I prefer it. But the whole “you’ll get it when I give it” vibe is balls. And the allure of the rest of the place ain’t enough to compensate. If Subeez Café was a thirteen year old girl, this would be the schoolyard gossip:

“Subeez is kind of a snob. It’s weird that she’s a snob because her parents don’t have any money, and she’s not very pretty. She smells like fries, probably cause she totally, like, hangs out at the burger stand all the time. I’m going to go put a frog in her pocket.”

The enormity of Subeez is glaring. The twenty-five foot ceilings provide a great showcase for the featured artwork, but it hollows out the depth of the generally good music, and turns the ambiance from cozy to spooky. You would think all the open air would prevent the smell of the deep fryer from latching onto your petticoat, but you’d be wrong.

The melted candles take a stab at returning the vibe to a cozy one, albeit gothic, but the vacuous décor remains solitary. Chilly is the name of the game at Subeez. Chilly reception + chilly atmosphere + chilly service + chilly pint of Guinness + chilly glass of red = chilly review. - C.L.