After lugging a hefty college bag — bulging with books, a laptop, and the usual load of inessential-essentials — around the city, the craving for something substantial and brunch-like hits hard at 4:30 p.m. By this point, only the warm comfort of something bready and hearty will do. Yet in the maze of East Village, finding the perfect place can feel like endless hopscotch between menus. Nestled on East Third St., Virginia’s, an upscale bistro known for its burger and steakhouse fare, feels like the much-needed respite. After the neighborhood gem Root & Bone closed in 2021, Virginia’s opened in 2023 in its place, offering nearly 60 indoor seats and another 50 outside. The expanded menu, crafted by executive chef Justin Lee and chef Isamar Checo, features bistro classics and steakhouse staples like steak frites, clams casino, and a trout roe dip.  

Virginia’s happy hour, running from 5:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. on Tuesday through Thursday and from 3:30 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. on weekends, offers a menu full of tempting options. One item, labeled “Happy Meal,” brings to mind the promise of more food for less money (pure happiness). With that, an order is placed for a burger paired with a glass of house wine or beer, all for $30.  

At 5:00 p.m., the top of happy hour, the restaurant did not seem happy in the slightest; one solitary diner sat framed by wooden furniture, the glow of a laptop screen, and a crew of servers keeping a constant watch. Eating alone is usually a peaceful pastime, but when the entire staff has no one else to look at, it can start to feel like an episode of a Netflix series no one signed up to star in.  

After 10 minutes, the long-awaited “happiness” arrived. The Happy Meal burger, stacked with a double beef patty, came with a heap of thin-cut fries, a side of aioli, and pickles — leaving the idea of a Happy Meal enjoyed in a McDonald’s parking lot a very distant memory. First impressions? Beauty. First bite? Blasphemy.  

The fries, the universal comfort food,  were coated in an alarming amount of oil. The oil that one single French fry would leave on one’s fingers could amount to the oil the United States and the UAE fight over. The betrayal felt deep. Helen Rosner, a food critic at The New Yorker, would be the first to say: “Just accept it. You love potatoes, you love fries. And no, not sweet potato fries, salted regular fries, yes you do.” Virginia’s had done the unthinkable: made fries skippable.  

As for the burger, it wasn’t much better. Call it a “bland-ger” — flat, flavorless, and forgettable. The brioche bun, meant to be a soft, buttery hug around the meat, was instead a slippery, greasy ordeal that fell apart on the first bite. The patty, unseasoned and dry, was a chore to chew through. Even the cheese, that last line of defense in any subpar burger, was — well, just sad.  

It’s no exaggeration to say the best part of the entire plate was the three tiny, circular pickles — one of those rare but unforgettable cases where the side character is more memorable than the main event.  

Smiling politely and soldiering on, the food was finished more out of habit and upbringing.  The staff began to feel like looming parents repeating the mantra “never waste food.” Had the ethos been slightly different, the drink selection might have been the only thing worth sticking around for. The awkwardness of being the only customer in the room, combined with a growing disappointment in each bite, only brought a sense of regret.  

After the meal, it hit like a ton of fresh cement bricks: it was a sad, soggy slog. Perhaps more hopscotch between menus would’ve been a better choice than spending money on poorly made potatoes and a slippery brioche bun. The $30 that had promised happiness fifty minutes ago instead delivered a culinary defeat, one that lingered longer than oil on fingers.  

Virginia’s didn’t just serve a mediocre meal, it delivered an experience so bafflingly off-kilter that it marked a first: robbing a fried potato of its joy. The burger, flaunting its double patty and mountain of thin-cut fries, arrived with the promise of comfort. But with each bite, that promise unraveled. Where warmth and crispness should have met, there was only bland disappointment. In a twist no one saw coming, a meal that advertised itself as happiness became the very opposite, earning Virginia’s the dubious distinction of being the place that turned fries from a pick-me-up to a letdown. A new low, served on a plate.Virginia’s East Village presents: Sad hour specials