Tag Food

How Would You Like Your Toast?

Michael 1 Comment

It’s probably us.  We seem to bring out the stories in the most harmless of activities.  Not long ago, Both of We and Child of He were out to a diner for a Sunday breakfast.  A real, honest to gosh diner.  The kind where the food is going to be fabulous if you order nothing more than tea and toast.  Well, let us tell you about this toast.

We have to begin at the beginning as we were seated at a table and asked the ritualistic “what would you like to drink?”  Coffee and tea and ice water for three please.  And yes, we’ll need some time to peruse the menu.  It wasn’t that it was too big like some, but it took a little reading because it had things we aren’t used to in the twenty-first century.  Things like sausage gravy and other offerings whose calorie counts were in triple digits.  Among the choices were several four egg omelets. 

After a couple of false starts of “are you ready?” by Waitress #1 we somehow were advanced to Waiter #2.  A pleasant enough young man at home from college for the summer.  On his first trip we figured we’re ready enough if those who know what they want order first and slowly and let those still deciding decide for a few more moments.  He of We went first with a decisive blow to the cholesterol watchers, the aforementioned sausage gravy with biscuits plus two eggs and a side of hash browns.  Two or three swipes with the pen and young Waiter had the order.  Then Child of He is up.  Both of We have seen her eat the equivalent of a lunch intended for a full firehouse but even Child draws the line at four eggs.  That’s nearly a week’s work of one chicken for just one meal.  “Can I have a smaller omelet?” was the innocent enough question.  “Of course, here it is on the smaller plates menu,” pointed out the Boy Waiter.  And there it was, a two egg cheese omelet.  But, Child didn’t want just cheese.  “Instead of just cheese can I have a veggie please,” and Young Waiter Man made a few more marks with his pen and we moved on to She of We.  A straightforward eggs, toast, hash brown, pancake combination order. 

We’re just about through the ordering phase of our breakfast when the waiter asked the question that in our combined whole lot of years we’ve never heard before.  “How would you like your toast?”  She of We was so taken aback that even she, the unflappable She of We, the unquestionable clearest of all clear order givers, was left speechless.  And so, he actually repeated, “How would you like your toast?”  He of We was just about ready to answer over-easy when She of We and Waiter of Three finally got their telepathy going and She of We suggested “umm, do you mean what kind of toast?”

To make a long story short, and after some light hearted kidding of Young Waiter, we settled in and waited for our meals to be prepared and presented.  And not much later an entourage marched down the aisle with several plates that could only be ours.  And as they were all settled in front of us, having finally gotten over “How would you like your toast?” the last dish to be dropped was the omelet for Child of He.  And when it hit the table we all were again rendered as thoroughly speechless as She of We was with the now infamous toast question.  For there, before Child of He sat a plate with a two egg, cheese omelet, her selection of toast, and nuzzled between them, a serving of . . . corn.  Child of He was the first to find her voice.  “Corn?”  “Yes,” young Waiter Man said,” that’s your cheese omelet with a veggie.”  Clearly, the vegetable of the day was . . . corn.

Eventually all was sorted out.  Child of He got her veggie omelet.  She of We enjoyed her toast.  He of We got to hear his arteries clog.  And a fine meal was had by all.

So our advice to you, if you should ever be questioned with “How would you like your toast?” is to answer poached and then mentally review the rest of the order for verbal land mines.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Hell’s Chopped Kitchen Star

Michael Leave a comment

“I learned how to cook at my grandmother’s house who took us in after Mom and Pop died in the car wreck when the telephone pole fell on the car that first smashed them, then electrocuted them.  Grandma went to the community college to learn English so she could raise me and my 14 sisters and one brother who wore dresses a lot but could make the fluffiest soufflé.  And if I win today’s competition I’m going to take the $300,000 prize and buy her the stove she’s always wanted assuming I can still find a 1965 Amana and let her teach my children all that she taught me.  Even the autistic ones.”

We’ve been watching a lot of cooking competition shows lately.  But not the cupcake people.  We hate the cupcake people.  What they do to cupcakes you shouldn’t be allowed to put on TV.  Anyway, we’ve been watching a lot of cooking competitions and swearing off as many as we watch.  Why?  Because the competitions are becoming less of a challenge among those who can cook as they are now a contest of who has the bigger sob story.

We’ve always liked the Food Network show Chopped.  The premise of real chefs being dealt real but unusual ingredients fascinates us.  Most of these people are real working chefs and know exactly what to do when given chicken feet, dragon fruit, clove candy, and 20 minutes to make a scrumptious appetizer.  But now it’s not good enough to see 4 chefs, then 3, then 2 turn the bizarre into the palatable.  Now we have to ask what will you do with the money if you win.  Who would have ever thought that cooks had so many physically challenged children?  Or how many have an elderly parent yearning to see the homeland one last time?  Or how many are supporting their nieces and nephews?  We know what we’d say if someone asked us how we would spend a prize.  It’s found money.  We’ll blow it all on us.

Gordon Ramsey has to be the king of shock cooking.  We’ve come to if not love, appreciate Hell’s Kitchen because he’s not going to hold anything back. If you’re not cooking, you’re not contributing.  Leave now.  The little snippet interviews with the contestants are the best part of that show.  It gives each contestant a little face time with the camera and by extension, the viewer.  We hear how this person is a dolt, that person can’t boil water.  Petty gripes and foul mouths.  But then after the service they go to their sleeping areas and talk to the pictures or their kids, and parents, and partners and how much they love them, and love (sniff) being here, and really (sniff, sniff) want this (boo hoo).

Another of our favorite cooking contests also has Gordon at the forefront.  Master Chef.  This competition among home cooks has us wondering if the professionals on Hell’s Kitchen shouldn’t stop by the studio next door and get some pointers on, well, on cooking.  These non-professionals are very good at their limited challenges and usually work without complaining.  But even here we have the boo-hoo crowd sneaking in and has us wondering how far a blind cook can go in a kitchen competition with real knives, hot stoves, and open flames.

Not long ago we were watching one of the previous winners of Food Network Star whose show came on right after another previous winner.  And at that we were stuck. Both of the former winners with real shows who have now been on for what seems like years and have books and CDs and probably hats and T-shirts were winners when food was the competition and they left making a good promo up to the PR department.  This year’s finalists seem (emphasis on seem) to know their difference between a whisk and a dutch oven.  Could it be that after all the tears a cooking competition might actually be decided on cooking?  It could happen.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Careful Wishing

Michael Leave a comment

There is a place we’ve been going to for years and we still can’t describe it.  It’s actually a winery with a tasting room and bottles of their own stuff lining the wall to sale or build into gift baskets.  But it’s also a gift shop, maybe even approaching emporium with all the usual cute but questionable gifts that go with wine.  You know, the t-shirt with the picture of the corkscrew and the legend, “Screw this.”  It’s a picnic grove, a banquet hall, a wine bar.

But it’s also a restaurant.  One that has expanded a couple of times over the years that we’ve been going there.  It’s always had the exceptionally talented local performers grace its outdoor seating area or dining room.  The singers sing soft tunes perfectly matched to a light lunch on a patio in the European countryside.  Except for it not being in Europe, it’s always been a pretty good place to go.  They have good food, good wine, good entertainment.  What more could you want on a summer afternoon?

Yesterday we found out.  We hadn’t been there since last season and we knew they made more changes.  They added another indoor seating area expanding it to challenge a full scale restaurant.  And the outside patio had a new small stage for the singers.  Our favorite was there – in fact he was what brought us there the first time we visited this site – and we were looking forward to a fruit and cheese platter, a crisp Riesling, and a few hours of first rate solo entertainment.

We should have known things changed for other than the best as we approached the hostess stand and 4 young girls were huddled around it.  They seemed somewhat confused whether there were or not any outside tables available and we were advised to wander the gift shot while they found one.  No problem, we’d get a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses and hang out in the grassy area flanking their pavilion.  But no sooner had we gotten the wine paid for that Hostess #1 was at our sides with a table ready.  We left the plastic cups meant for perimeter use and headed to our table.  After 10 minutes of staring at our open bottle of wine, which He of We seriously considered guzzling from, a waitress finally appeared with real glasses and a promise to bring us a wine chiller for our bottle and to take our order.

To make a long story short, we were left unattended then for not the first time that afternoon and for long periods.  We were served a delicious salad on a plate that never made it through the dishwasher after its previous use.  We sat with empty water glasses in 85 degree heat.  We were left with dirty plates on our table from two courses.  And we never got the bottle chiller until the second bottle. (Actually we rarely order a second bottle but we were on a quest to see if there really was ice inside the building our waitress kept disappearing to.)

We wondered if we had brought this on.  When we first started going there it was very small, just a handful of tables outside the tasting room and the talent perched under a large umbrella.  We said many times in those early years that we wished the owners good luck trying to create a destination out of their little winery so more people could enjoy it.  We should have taken that old advice, be careful what you wish for.

As always, the entertainment was top notch.  But we can always find our favorite singer at other venues.  The food was very good.  But not incomparable.  The atmosphere was charming, but not unmatched. 

New this time around, the service sucked.  And that’s why we’ll question ever going there again.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Food Rules!

Michael Leave a comment

“It was some sort of curry but it needed something,” She of We was telling He of We of her supper a little earlier that evening.  It seemed to be not very memorable, but then, “but then I thought ‘I bet it will be better if I add some parmesan cheese to it’ so I did and it did.  You’re probably not supposed to add parmesan to curry.”  And that started us down the path lined with food rules.

Food should be fun to make, to serve, and to eat.  There shouldn’t be any rules.  But there are rules all over food.  Don’t add cheese to fish.  Serve red wine with red meat.  Add oil to vinegar.  Parmesan and curry don’t go together.  As far as we’re concerned there is only one food rule.  Enjoy what you eat.

Recipes are just rules lined up in numerical order.  Sometimes, recipes are so daunting and the ingredients so obscure that it’s impossible to satisfy We’s Rule of Food: Enjoy What You Eat.  The way we figure, unless you’re a restaurant and you want every crab cake to taste exactly the same or the enchilada on Tuesday to taste just like the enchilada on Saturday you don’t really need a recipe.  A guide, yes.  A formula, no. 

When we look for recipe books we look for the ones with the stories about the food and the cooks.  What was the author/chef thinking, or doing, or remembering when he or she first put those ingredients together.  How many times did the middle child serve as tester before it came out right?  What are the stories behind the food?  How your grandmother taught you to spot the freshest chicken is a much more interesting tale than how much chicken to bone for the lemon chicken salad.  If we like the story, we’ll try the food.  And if we don’t like the food, we’ll at least have read a good story.

Food rules (the noun) have no place in your kitchen.  Food rules (the verb) is what makes a kitchen. 

Food Rules!  We like that.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Take a Tip From Us

Michael Leave a comment

You know we’ve been pretty good at expressing our dismay when dismay is appropriate for expression.  A favorite of ours is the loss of “Thank you” by clerks, servers, tellers, and other manner of people who take money from us.  We’re told to “have a good one” or sometimes just are greeted with an open palm, not even the price repeated to us.  (See Terms of Appreciation, January 23, 2012 and You Want Fries With That? December 12, 2011 for a couple examples.)

But when we’re un-dismayed we’re going to mention that too.  Since we’ve released those two posts upon the world, we seem to be getting thanked more often.  Drive thru attendants are telling us the amount due, taking our payment, and saying “thank you” when returning our change.  We still get “Have a nice day” and now we will since we’ve been appropriately thanked for our purchase.   It gives us hope that another peeve will soon be history.  

Once upon a time in one of our posts we revealed that when out dining, He of We always pays in cash.  The check comes, he gives it that quick glance to make sure we didn’t get charge for the flambéed cocktail for two served to the next table, calculates the tip, counts out the bills, and returns the little bill book to the table.  (And why do restaurants put their mini-statements into little black books?  That’s another post for another day.)  A few minutes later the waitress comes back, picks up the wad of cash, and says, “You want any change?”  Sometimes during the mental communication between Each of We that waitress gets a good tongue lashing.  We’d love to say “Of course we do.  We don’t go to the super market, pick out $4.00 worth of green peppers, get to the cash register, give the clerk a five dollar bill and hear her ask ‘Do you want any change?’” 

No other clerk or money handler asks such a question.  And it’s really funny because even when the wait staff is completely incompetent they still get some sort of a tip.  So waiters and waitresses, please tell us, why do you have to ruin a perfectly good evening out by being so selfish and rude?  Wouldn’t you rather say, “I’ll be right back with your change,” and allow us the opportunity to say, “Oh, no. whatever’s left is for you.”  Wouldn’t you feel better about that than stiff-arming your customers for a couple of bucks?

We’re all for change.   And most of the time, you’re going to get it.  Just give us the courtesy of giving it to you before you take it.  You might even find a bit extra in there.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

I went to a home show and all I bought were nacho chips

Michael 1 Comment

We don’t know exactly how big it is, but we know that the home and garden show business across the country is definitely big.  Our town has multiple varieties of the “everything for your home under one roof” extravaganza with more suburban varieties popping up every year in advance of the big one in town.

It’s a spectacle that we’ve been a part of for years.  Every year it seems to get busier with more people crowding the aisles between the wind chimes and the garage door installers.  We’ve gotten lots of stuff over the years from this show of shows. Everything from plants to hot tubs.  From art to hang on our walls to decks to hang on our houses.  We’ve never walked away from a home show empty handed.  Empty walleted, yes.  Empty handed, no.

This year it was almost hard to buy anything.  Although every installer, builder, and artisan has his or her “show special,” it seems that prices at these events are always higher than on the outside.   But there are things you’ll never see on the outside so you don’t really know.

This year we came across the $29 dog brush, a $22 garlic peeler, a $49 hose nozzle, and (our favorite) the essential $100 iron.  It was at the iron display that the pitchman steadfastly refused to reveal the price until the demonstration was over.  It looked like a good deal, and maybe worth a few extra dollars just for the long cord.  When he quoted the “low price of only ninety-nine, ninety-nine” someone (ok, it might have been us – in unison) exclaimed, “That’s a hundred dollars!  For an Iron!” and a couple other observations about it.  “But it’s the last iron you’ll ever buy,” came the seller’s justification.  We compared our iron history.  Between the two of us we’re on our third iron.  It could have been the second except He of We lost his first iron in an appliance custody settlement.  The most expensive of those was $17.

We don’t know why events like this have to inflate prices so much.  Twenty years ago you at least got some entertainment out of it with the classic pitchmen and the cleaners and tools you couldn’t get anywhere else.  On the main stage the local PBS affiliate would have cooking and home improvement demonstrations.  We remember when they would make enough at the cooking demos that everyone in the audience actually got to eat.  Now two hotdogs and a soft drink eat up three quarters of a twenty dollar bill. 

But we’ll still go every year.  Whether we need anything or not we’ll find something or other.  And it’s always an opportunity to re-visit with truly talented artists and craftsmen.  At our last stop we stayed for a while and chatted with an artist whose work graces walls in both of our houses.  He is a very pleasant man who actually makes a living from his paintings.  Someone who has turned his dream into his dream job.  Someone who makes you feel good that you stopped to say hello.

 And a good thing we did or else the only things we would have bought this year would have been three bags of tortilla chips and a newspaper subscription. 

Hey, when it comes to something of other, you can never have too much of it.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

If Only the ER Served Magaritas

Michael 1 Comment

We almost expected to hear Anthony Edwards, aka E. R. Dr. Mark Greene, shout “Clear!” and apply the defibrillator paddles to the piece of meat in front of him, grilling it to the perfect fajita filling.  The hustle and the bustle far exceeded that of most inner city emergency rooms on a Saturday night after the local team won its first (pick your favorite season) championship in over 50 years.

Ok, let’s catch you up so you can enjoy this tale also.  Last weekend we paid a visit to one of our favorite local eateries.  A very small authentic Mexican restaurant with no designs of growing larger.  On a lucky Saturday night we’ll be led to a quiet table for two tucked into a corner as far from the hostess stand as one can get in a room the size of a generous living room.  Here we’re treated to the basic three courses where we relish in the opportunity to be served by trained, professional waitpersons in our favorite quietly comfortable restaurant.  Good food.  Good service.  Good company.  Good time.

Last Saturday we headed to our dining quarry figuring to have a drink in the bar before dinner.  We’ve ventured into the bar, considerably smaller in scale to the rest of the operation just as another couple was called to their table.  We settled into their vacated seats at the far side of the square cornered horseshoe and decided that we were so comfortable, and since we never had there before, we would have dinner right there at the bar.

Eating at the bar is nothing unusual for us.  We do so quite often.  We’re low enough maintenance that the bartenders aren’t unduly burdened by having to play waitperson while already performing in the role of barperson.  Many of the places we’ve come to call home for dinner out have the bar in the middle of the room and thus in the middle of the action.  The ideal seat for people watching.  So with our history of bar dining and a new opportunity in front of us, we embarked on our first such supper at our favorite comfortably quiet restaurant.  Boy were we in for a shock!

“Clear!”  Well, how about “Smith!  Party of 4!  Jones!  Party of 2!”  Every 15 minutes or so the hostess, a little bitty thing, stood in the doorway of the smallish space and bellowed out a prospective diner like a conductor crying the stops of the local commuter train with a voice that would fill all outdoors.  “Behind you! Cold ice!” the bar back routinely called out with as much frequency as the people search.  And the people kept on coming.

They packed themselves in like they were filing into the afternoon rush hour subway.  Parties of 2, 4, 8.  Eyes slightly glazed after a long day of shopping? housework? painting?  We don’t know what the Saturday afternoon activities but whatever they were those activities led to a need for an adult beverage.  And soon.  Drinks were called for from the second row behind the stools. 

“Ford! Party of 6!”  “Margarita! No Salt!”  “Lincoln! Party of 4!”  “Dos Equis! Draft! Make it two!”  At one time we counted 38 people in the little room.  The fire marshal generously rated the space for occupancy by 50 people.  The designer squeezed 14 stools around the counter.  There wasn’t a time that the other 36 hadn’t conveyed their desperate need to soothe the fever that responded only to the medicine served in a chilled glass.   Ice when it wasn’t being poured into the holder 20 pounds at a time was transferred into quart sized mason jars then filled with tequila and the other makings for their specialty margarita and attached to the industrial blender that sounded like a second cousin to a turboprop airplane.  When at last their names were call, parties would leave for the dining room, clutching their chilled glasses like the secret remedy from the healer of the high desert. 

Standees took their vacated seats, new patients crowded in from the outer room.  “Nachos with queso!”  “Frozen or on the rocks!” “Heinz! Party of 6!” “More chips please!” “Rocks! No Salt!”  “More Ice!” “French! Party of 2!”

All around the conversations bubbled to the top, mixed with the televisions (two, about 20 feet apart, on different channels) and stirred into the bustling chatter of the staff, creating a confused sound track.  “Temperatures will be higher than…the upstairs really need to be…ordered last week and now they say…it’s the third meeting between them…when I said…do you want another…chilly night before…rebounding and that has to get better than… dark blue with gray trim.” 

One of our regular waiters spotted us from the service area waiting for his orders.  “Trying something new?” he shouted across the room.  “You know us, we have to try it all!” we answered.  Our attention divided between the bartenders going through tequila, ice, and chilled mason jars and the patrons going through tequila, ice, and chilled mason jars.  The bar persons whirling into high gear, resembling the blades spinning in the drink mixer.  The bar crowd shifting into lower gears as the cactus juice mellowed them in preparation for dinner.  Eventually.

And so they came, dazed, confused, smarting from spring cleaning, comatose from too much Saturday television, sore and achy, looking for healing in the emergency rooms of bars.  And a margarita.  Rocks.  No salt.  No glass.  Just a mason jar and one really big straw.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Terms of Appreciation

Michael 3 Comments

You know that every so often new words are officially added to the English language.  We’re not certain exactly how the process goes but we know that “somebody” figures out that we are using non-words so often that eventually “they” decide to make those words official and add them to the language.  Fortunately language isn’t like the physical law of conserving matter.  There is nothing that says there only so many letters available and when you build more new words you have to lose some old ones.  We can keep adding words all we want and we don’t have to put any of the old ones away.  But is sure seems like there are some words that we just don’t hear anymore.  Two of them are “thank” and “you.”

You knew you were getting set up for something.  But really, have you noticed that “thank you” is going fast.  Particularly at the grocery store, bank, convenience store, restaurants, and fast-food drive thru windows.  (We’re pretty sure “thru” is one of the new words we’re allowed to use so we will.  Besides, ‘drive-through’ looks weird.)  And it’s not just that “thank you” is disappearing.  It’s being replaced.  Instead of an expression of gratitude when we hand our money over to the aforementioned clerks and servers, we are now being told “have a good one,” or “there you go” when change is involved.  Quite often, and particularly at the drive thru, we’re told nothing at all.

We don’t like it.  We’re not certain who is in charge of expressions of gratitude but “there you go” doesn’t cut it.  We’re prepared to begin a letter writing campaign so if any of you have a clue as to whom we address our concerns please let us know.  And quickly, before “thank you” disappears into the altogether.

While we’re at it, there are some other phrases we’d like to see when we’re attempting to buy goods or services. 

When we finally get to the head of a check-out line at the local do it yourself center we can do without “did you find everything ok?”  Usually the person asking is a teenager working part time after school or on weekends and has no clue as to what we are buying let alone where we would find whatever it is we couldn’t locate.  “Did you find everything?” is a fine phrase but quite useless by the time one gets to the check-out corral.  Maybe the do it yourself powers that be could shift a few employees to the aisles where the confusion begins to ask that question.  But at the cash register we’d like a return to the old standby of “Hello, would you like some help to your car with that?” particularly when “that” is 500 pounds of wood, nails, shingles, and hardware for a backyard shed that we never did find the instructions for.

When we are out for our weekly dinner date we’d rather not have the server greet us with “can I get you something to drink?” before we’ve even decided which chair who will sit in and do we drape our coats over the backs of the chairs in which we do eventually sit or across the seat of a vacant one.  We’d prefer “You guys get settled in and I’ll bring you a couple glasses of water.  Then if you’d like a drink or an appetizer you can let me know.”  We’ve already had issues with the customary check in question “Is everything ok?” (See “You Want Fries with That?” posted in LIFE, Dec, 12, 2011.)  It’s a great question made up of great words.  It’s just that few servers actually mean it.  And the ones that do are serving in restaurants that if everything wasn’t ok the dish would not have ever made it out of the kitchen.

And can we please dispense with the recorded greetings at the drive thru windows!  It’s bad enough every time you call any business that you are greeted with an auto-attendant.  Why do we now have to have (in an overly cheerful voice) “Would you like to try one of our new triple bypass burgers with the works available only for a limited time?!” This is then followed closely by the bored “Whenever you’re ready.”  Instead let’s move on to “Our menu hasn’t changed since 1955, what will you be having?”  It’s either that or the terribly unimaginative “May I take your order, please?”

There are some terrific new words and phrases that we didn’t have when we were first learning to use a dictionary like the Internet, technical support, and twenty-four hour fitness center.  That doesn’t mean that we can never use the oldies but goodies except in trivia games such as encyclopedia, repair manual, or housework.

We’re all for change.   We just don’t want to be told “There you go” when we get it.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

You want fries with that?

Michael 2 Comments

Another Saturday night was in full swing.  Even though it was the coldest night since Thanksgiving and one of only two shopping  Saturdays left until Christmas (no, we don’t count Christmas Eve as a shopping day – sheesh!)  the stores were full, the parking lots were full, and . . .  yes, the restaurants were full.  We will wait for almost anything worth that wait – good music, good hockey, good movies, good plays – but food, nope, we just aren’t going to wait for that.  There are too many restaurants with the same offerings to wait 45 minutes at one restaurant when a similar entrée is beckoning you from across the street.  And thus we were led astray by our rumbling tummies and fell into the abyss that was once a stalwart of family dining in our part of the world.

It’s our go-to restaurant when everything else is packed, when we can’t agree on where to go, or when we want that “you’ll never get a bad meal there” and we don’t want “there” to be home.  What it turned out to be was the exception to the rule.  First we got led to a sticky table with a crumb festooned banquette right off the open doorway to the kitchen.  The waitress was quick enough to come for a drinks order but that was the last time we saw her that evening.  No, that’s not true.  We did see her again 20 minutes later when she brought out the drinks.  That was however the last time she brought a correct order to us. It wasn’t a hard order – She of We ordered the meatloaf and He of We was having a pot roast sandwich with fries and gravy over everything.  Fattening, yes.  Difficult, no.  After making the 45 minute wait at the restaurant across the street seem speedy she came out with the correct but quite cold orders.  When she returned for the customary “how is everything?” we told her of our cold food, which by now could have chilled fresh brewed iced tea.  She stormed off in a huff, our former plates balanced precariously on her forearm, declaring “I’m never working a Saturday again!”  After only a moment away she returned again to ask if we wanted our meals re-prepared and simply heated.

To make a long story short, after three more trips to the kitchen, two additional exclamations of “I’m never working on Saturday again!” two visits by the restaurant manager, and an impromptu dance routine just inside the kitchen doorway,  we left with “We’re never going there on a Saturday again.”

But wait, should we strike an otherwise enjoyable rest stop from our list of acceptable establishments because they no longer hire professional waitresses?  Nobody hires professional waiters or waitresses any more.  There seems to be some backlash against professionals in the service industries.  We don’t understand why.  It takes a particular skill to handle a handful of restaurant tables each with a handful of diners even on a not particularly busy night.  The fault isn’t that of the misguided woman who thinks waitressing is a piece of cake.  It’s not even the fault of the manager who hires people who show contempt for their busiest night.  It’s the fault of the people who patronize these restaurants and stores but don’t complain when served up shoddy service.  It’s the fault of those who won’t return on a Saturday night but not tell anyone why.

We think something has to be done.  The only way we are going to get skilled and practiced service is to demand it.  Waiters and waitresses have to understand that if they do a mediocre job they get a mediocre tip.  When asking how everything was at the end of the meal they should expect, and want a critique of their service.  If the service is so bad that the manager is waiving the check, the waitress’s first thought should not be “there goes my tip.”  Managers have to know that the answer to every service complaint is not free dessert.  If a problem means meals will be delayed bring out some appetizers while the delay is happening.  Owners have to know that competent training and honest evaluations go a long way in making an establishment a continued stalwart in the field.   

When confronted with poor service we often ask ourselves what workers at these places expect.  It’s work.  But it’s work that’s been done for years by competent, yet still pleasant professionals.  We say bring them back.  And put them in charge.  And if it means we have to pay a little bit more for the service it will be worth it.

Even just for the meatloaf and a pot roast sandwich with fries and gravy over everything.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?