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when mitchell and i first pledged together our lives, our fortunes, & our sacred honor, lo these many years ago, the first rule (out of many) that she laid down upon the ground (i did mention the many, yes?) was simple: no fast food, & we would only eat at a restaurant if a). we were in another state from her kitchen, b). she was out of both energy & frozen options, or c). she was looking for inspiration.
at the time i thought this was an utterly unreasonable restriction, having spent at least two years living on the bounty of whatever i could find in terms of takeout (it being hard to cook on the open road, the tin-can hobo stove having fallen out of fashion sometime in these past decades & the local constabulary often being quick to investigate anything on fire, fearing acts of terrorism, or at least acts of ramen, which might also qualify). however, over the past several years, i have come to slowly appreciate her perspective. with mitchell around to be one's gourmet chef, why buy the cow when one can get the milk for free, as it were? (yes, mitchell, stop hitting me.) still, there are times when one must bite the bullet & eat other than at home.
this is one such story.
while returning from the loving bosom of her family the other day, she announced that she was exhausted (& drugged, & just a little bit drunken) from travel, & therefore enquired whether i would be willing to stop for a meal rather than waiting to see whether sparky had managed to knock out our power again. (which he had, of course, without noticing, & we not being there to re-fuel the generator -- well, let us just say that yr. humble & ob'd't srv't has more experience in cleaning out the refrigerator & freezer than he'd like, & we have taken to storing things inside rubbermaid bins in the freezer so we can just throw out the bins -- but i digress. again.) amenable to the diversion, i selected a national chain restaurant that shall remain nameless (one of those ones that, upon opening, is shipped a metric fuckton of crap (™) from corporate to put on the walls & requires its staff to wear a certain amount of flair) and escorted my fair lady to booth & additional booze (she doesn't really need that liver).
we ordered a warm appetizer to share (or rather, for me to eat & her to pick at) & told the waitress that we would have our entrees decided upon shortly. the waitress went away, presumably (one would think) to ring in the appetizer and the drinks; when the waitress came back with said drinks, mitchell ordered a salad, and i ordered a bowl of pasta, knowing (as i do) said chain's reputation for large portions thereof, which would save me from having to order three entrees. (i find that i get strange looks in public when i eat the way i'd like. i can't help burning a metric fuckton of calories a day, people.)
the waitress went away again. mitchell and i had a pleasant conversation that was only slightly marred by the fact that she was stoned out of her gourd. (honestly, sometimes conversations with mitchell are more pleasant when she's stoned out of her gourd. yes, mitchell, stop hitting me.)
we waited some more.
& some more.
eventually, our appetizer showed up. i looked at mitchell. mitchell looked at me. "five minutes," she said. "two minutes," i said. we shook on it.
for once my cynicism was unfounded, dear friends: the entrees arrived six whole minutes after the appetizer.
now, i remember the good old days, friends, when men were real men, women were real women, small fuzzy creatures from alpha centauri were real small fuzzy creatures from alpha centauri, & restaurants actually understood the concept of pacing a meal. yes, even crap chain restaurants. it is not difficult. i have, over these past few years, had the honor & privilege of watching a true kitchen artist at work. i am aware that it is possible to estimate how long it will take someone to eat an appetizer and estimate how long it will take to cook an entree and add a little bit of column a & a little bit of column b to arrive at a master cooking plan with absolutely zero rush.
i am also aware, of course, that these restaurants make their profit margin by rushing people out the door as fast as possible so they can turn their tables. however, it was well before the dinner rush -- our flight having landed at an inconvenient time -- & we were one of perhaps seven tables. forgive me for thinking that this should buy us a little bit of grace period.
i flagged down our waitress (the food having been delivered by a ponytailed, gum-chewing kitchen runner who had achieved the vast sum of sixteen years of age, if that; i wasn't about to unleash my wrath on her) and politely -- politely, friends! -- requested that my entree -- as it was the type of entree that would not benefit from sitting on the table for fifteen minutes while i bolted down the appetizer -- be returned to the kitchen & recooked (rather than reheated) in fifteen minutes. i do not believe this was an unreasonable request, particularly since the chain restaurant is one of those that pays such lip service to a desire for high quality food. (as if.) i knew that without this request -- a polite request; mitchell can verify that i never begin with the scorched-earth policy when dealing with those poor unfortunates who make their living by catering to picky individuals such as myself -- the food would simply be returned to the hot plate, there to grow dry and disgusting.
dear friends, the waitress told me -- quite rudely -- that the timing of the meal was automated (!) and computerized (!!) & she could do nothing to change it. i was quite reasonable; i did not point out that as a computer professional, i was well aware of what could & could not be done to a computer. (the computer is your friend, friend citizen.) i simply smiled, pointed out that i had just begun my appetizer, & reiterated my request for my food to be re-cooked in another fifteen minutes.
she heaved a gigantic sigh, took both my plate and mitchell's ("hey, i was eating that," mitchell protested, to no avail), & squired them back away to the kitchen. fifteen minutes later, when i had, in fact, finished my appetizer course, the plates were returned to us.
my food, dear friends, was piping hot in the center from being microwaved, dry & disgusting on the top from being left under the heat lamps, & the plate was so hot to the touch that even I could barely bear to touch it. (mitchell's food was merely dried out. who the fuck puts a salad on a hot plate? don't answer that.)
now, when in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people (namely, yrs trly) to pitch a fucking shitfit, said shitfit is often presaged by a great deal of grumbling to mitchell, who serves as preliminary audience for many of my public performances. i began my warmup routine, only to receive a raised hand & a plea to "for once, baby, just let it fucking go." noticing that she was, in fact, fucking wrecked (travel does not agree with her), i subsided. & ate my damn awful pasta. in deference to her desire to avoid a scene, i did not even bitch at the manager.
i did, however, fill out one of those comment cards. no, i don't expect it to do any good, but it made me feel better. rantus interruptus is never a good feeling.
so i ask: is it just me? is it, in fact, unreasonable to expect that one be given a certain amount of time to consume one's appetizers before one's entree arrives at the table? is it unreasonable to expect that when one points out a failing in the restaurant's level of service, one should receive an apology (however insincere) & a following of one's wishes? is it unreasonable to expect that one should be able to dine free from bad attitude from one's server?
i am perfectly sympathetic for those who toil long and weary hours on their feet dealing with jackasses such as yrs trly, & am more than willing to compensate said individuals for their time & trouble (standard tip begins at 25% & goes up for service above the baseline minimum). i am also perfectly aware of the reason why mitchell & i are generally plagued with bad service, as common wisdom in the restaurant industry is that the only group of people who are worse tippers than women are teenagers. we do, however, go out of our way to be pleasant & friendly to the nice people who are bringing us food, & it should -- should, by God! -- buy us some grace.
or at least a fucking meal that doesn't suck.
next time we're eating at the greasy spoon. the service is surly, but i'll take honest surliness over fake nice any day. & at least there they recognize me & are willing to give me some leeway. (don't tell mitchell how often i eat there, okay? she'll just hit me again.)
i remain,
your humble & ob'd't srv't,
jdn.
at the time i thought this was an utterly unreasonable restriction, having spent at least two years living on the bounty of whatever i could find in terms of takeout (it being hard to cook on the open road, the tin-can hobo stove having fallen out of fashion sometime in these past decades & the local constabulary often being quick to investigate anything on fire, fearing acts of terrorism, or at least acts of ramen, which might also qualify). however, over the past several years, i have come to slowly appreciate her perspective. with mitchell around to be one's gourmet chef, why buy the cow when one can get the milk for free, as it were? (yes, mitchell, stop hitting me.) still, there are times when one must bite the bullet & eat other than at home.
this is one such story.
while returning from the loving bosom of her family the other day, she announced that she was exhausted (& drugged, & just a little bit drunken) from travel, & therefore enquired whether i would be willing to stop for a meal rather than waiting to see whether sparky had managed to knock out our power again. (which he had, of course, without noticing, & we not being there to re-fuel the generator -- well, let us just say that yr. humble & ob'd't srv't has more experience in cleaning out the refrigerator & freezer than he'd like, & we have taken to storing things inside rubbermaid bins in the freezer so we can just throw out the bins -- but i digress. again.) amenable to the diversion, i selected a national chain restaurant that shall remain nameless (one of those ones that, upon opening, is shipped a metric fuckton of crap (™) from corporate to put on the walls & requires its staff to wear a certain amount of flair) and escorted my fair lady to booth & additional booze (she doesn't really need that liver).
we ordered a warm appetizer to share (or rather, for me to eat & her to pick at) & told the waitress that we would have our entrees decided upon shortly. the waitress went away, presumably (one would think) to ring in the appetizer and the drinks; when the waitress came back with said drinks, mitchell ordered a salad, and i ordered a bowl of pasta, knowing (as i do) said chain's reputation for large portions thereof, which would save me from having to order three entrees. (i find that i get strange looks in public when i eat the way i'd like. i can't help burning a metric fuckton of calories a day, people.)
the waitress went away again. mitchell and i had a pleasant conversation that was only slightly marred by the fact that she was stoned out of her gourd. (honestly, sometimes conversations with mitchell are more pleasant when she's stoned out of her gourd. yes, mitchell, stop hitting me.)
we waited some more.
& some more.
eventually, our appetizer showed up. i looked at mitchell. mitchell looked at me. "five minutes," she said. "two minutes," i said. we shook on it.
for once my cynicism was unfounded, dear friends: the entrees arrived six whole minutes after the appetizer.
now, i remember the good old days, friends, when men were real men, women were real women, small fuzzy creatures from alpha centauri were real small fuzzy creatures from alpha centauri, & restaurants actually understood the concept of pacing a meal. yes, even crap chain restaurants. it is not difficult. i have, over these past few years, had the honor & privilege of watching a true kitchen artist at work. i am aware that it is possible to estimate how long it will take someone to eat an appetizer and estimate how long it will take to cook an entree and add a little bit of column a & a little bit of column b to arrive at a master cooking plan with absolutely zero rush.
i am also aware, of course, that these restaurants make their profit margin by rushing people out the door as fast as possible so they can turn their tables. however, it was well before the dinner rush -- our flight having landed at an inconvenient time -- & we were one of perhaps seven tables. forgive me for thinking that this should buy us a little bit of grace period.
i flagged down our waitress (the food having been delivered by a ponytailed, gum-chewing kitchen runner who had achieved the vast sum of sixteen years of age, if that; i wasn't about to unleash my wrath on her) and politely -- politely, friends! -- requested that my entree -- as it was the type of entree that would not benefit from sitting on the table for fifteen minutes while i bolted down the appetizer -- be returned to the kitchen & recooked (rather than reheated) in fifteen minutes. i do not believe this was an unreasonable request, particularly since the chain restaurant is one of those that pays such lip service to a desire for high quality food. (as if.) i knew that without this request -- a polite request; mitchell can verify that i never begin with the scorched-earth policy when dealing with those poor unfortunates who make their living by catering to picky individuals such as myself -- the food would simply be returned to the hot plate, there to grow dry and disgusting.
dear friends, the waitress told me -- quite rudely -- that the timing of the meal was automated (!) and computerized (!!) & she could do nothing to change it. i was quite reasonable; i did not point out that as a computer professional, i was well aware of what could & could not be done to a computer. (the computer is your friend, friend citizen.) i simply smiled, pointed out that i had just begun my appetizer, & reiterated my request for my food to be re-cooked in another fifteen minutes.
she heaved a gigantic sigh, took both my plate and mitchell's ("hey, i was eating that," mitchell protested, to no avail), & squired them back away to the kitchen. fifteen minutes later, when i had, in fact, finished my appetizer course, the plates were returned to us.
my food, dear friends, was piping hot in the center from being microwaved, dry & disgusting on the top from being left under the heat lamps, & the plate was so hot to the touch that even I could barely bear to touch it. (mitchell's food was merely dried out. who the fuck puts a salad on a hot plate? don't answer that.)
now, when in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people (namely, yrs trly) to pitch a fucking shitfit, said shitfit is often presaged by a great deal of grumbling to mitchell, who serves as preliminary audience for many of my public performances. i began my warmup routine, only to receive a raised hand & a plea to "for once, baby, just let it fucking go." noticing that she was, in fact, fucking wrecked (travel does not agree with her), i subsided. & ate my damn awful pasta. in deference to her desire to avoid a scene, i did not even bitch at the manager.
i did, however, fill out one of those comment cards. no, i don't expect it to do any good, but it made me feel better. rantus interruptus is never a good feeling.
so i ask: is it just me? is it, in fact, unreasonable to expect that one be given a certain amount of time to consume one's appetizers before one's entree arrives at the table? is it unreasonable to expect that when one points out a failing in the restaurant's level of service, one should receive an apology (however insincere) & a following of one's wishes? is it unreasonable to expect that one should be able to dine free from bad attitude from one's server?
i am perfectly sympathetic for those who toil long and weary hours on their feet dealing with jackasses such as yrs trly, & am more than willing to compensate said individuals for their time & trouble (standard tip begins at 25% & goes up for service above the baseline minimum). i am also perfectly aware of the reason why mitchell & i are generally plagued with bad service, as common wisdom in the restaurant industry is that the only group of people who are worse tippers than women are teenagers. we do, however, go out of our way to be pleasant & friendly to the nice people who are bringing us food, & it should -- should, by God! -- buy us some grace.
or at least a fucking meal that doesn't suck.
next time we're eating at the greasy spoon. the service is surly, but i'll take honest surliness over fake nice any day. & at least there they recognize me & are willing to give me some leeway. (don't tell mitchell how often i eat there, okay? she'll just hit me again.)
i remain,
your humble & ob'd't srv't,
jdn.