Tag Service

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?

 

Some Gave All

Michael Leave a comment

Happy Memorial Day!  If you really think about it, that is just so wrong.  For over 140 years, Memorial Day marked the day when Americans honored first those who died in the Civil War, then those who died in any war, then those who died.  The common theme is death.

Death, while just about always somber does is not always unhappy.  Many families due to distance or other circumstances only re-unite on the occasion of a death among them.  Quite often what began as sorrowful turns into a true celebration of life.  But “Happy Memorial Day?”  It still seems wrong.  Since the Americans started fighting as Americans in 1775, over 1.5 million Americans ceased being so other Americans would benefit from their sacrifice.

Sometime today the television news people will broadcast film of a cemetery lined with miniature American flags decorating simple crosses or markers.   Sometime today thousands of marchers will step off on a parade that will end at a memorial site where a bugler will play taps.  Sometime today you will open your Internet news or your local newspaper and see a picture of a color guard highlighting a member from each of the armed services.  Sometime today almost everybody will shed or stifle a tear because each of us knows somebody who played a part in us still being at liberty to watch TV, wave at the parade, or just explore our world. 

And sometime today we’ll forget why we celebrate today and just celebrate.  We’ll have cook-outs, play soft ball, reunite with family and friends, and have a good time.  And somewhere, 1.5 million souls will look down and smile, knowing what began as sorrowful turned into a true celebration of life. 

Happy Memorial Day!     

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

 

Spring Chickens vs The Codger

Michael Leave a comment

With age comes wisdom.  And a bunch of people who don’t care.  We’re sorry, did that seem harsh?  Get used to it because the older you get the harsher reality becomes.

Neither of We is anymore what a spring chicken strives to be, but then Neither of We is at the codger level.  He of We is 5 or 6 years ahead of She of We and he might be starting to see it more.

See, back about 25 years ago He of We was a pretty good looking fellow.  Lots of hair, firm chin (with a dimple), clear eyes, and a dashing figure proclaiming him to be quite in shape.  Today he’s a bit puffy around the face and neck, lots of skin on top of his head, a figure that begs to cry out “but round is a shape.” Back then he didn’t know much more than what he learned in school and everybody knows that’s only 10% of everything anybody needs to know to be successful.  But he routinely was looked to for advice and confirmation and became that person who people listened to when E. F. Hutton wasn’t available. 

Over those 25 years he’s seen lots more of the stuff that makes him quite an invaluable asset to his employer.  Except now that he has the knowledge and wisdom that experience brought, nobody wants to listen to him.  They are all flocking around the new guy with the shirt collar that can be buttoned.

It’s probably not like that in the animal kingdom.  The dogs still follow the alpha male and it’s still the older birds that rule the roosts.  Probably in organized crime and the legal profession a little age and experience are also sought after attributes.  You can’t know a good loophole until you’ve been in one.  And maybe if you’re a dentist you never really want to turn your back on other dentists that have discovered how to keep the patient from biting and still cheerfully fork over outrageously high co-pays.

But by and large, it’s not what’s in your head that people look for at the weekly managers’ meetings.  It’s how that head looks that moves the body to the middle seat at the conference table.  If youth is wasted on the young, then experience is a mockery to the experienced.  But there is a way around this so what one learns in life isn’t wasted and what the men and women beginning their lives can learn without admitting they don’t know everything. 

Ooops, sorry.  Time for our naps.  We’ll get back to you with that at our next meeting.

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?

 

Till Death Do Us Part

Michael Leave a comment

She of We asked He of We if he saw the story about the feuding children who were posting competing obituaries.  Oddly enough, He of We who seems invariably to come across only the most bizarre news while trying to find the local weather, sports scores, or lottery numbers, hadn’t.  Since he can’t let much get by him he went in search and found not only that which She of We had referenced, but several other articles decrying bad behavior in the world of remembrances.  Let’s catch you up on what we found.

That which started it all started in of all places, Florida.  The Sunshine State wasn’t sporting very bright people when a seemingly doting son decided he was going to vent his resentments with his siblings in mom’s printed 15 Minutes.  His paid tribute billed himself as the loving son and the other two children as the daughter who betrayed her and the son who broke her heart.  Such a close family.  Word is that the daughter wrote a second obituary but that one seems to be unavailable for viewing to the Internet world.  There was one article that said it contained basically the same information as that of the first without the colorful descriptions of the siblings.  And mom’s age was different.  Maybe they weren’t so close.

It got us to thinking about the etiquette behind obituaries.  We’ve written about workplace etiquette (Fire Them All), shopping etiquette (Clean Up on Aisle Ten), restaurant etiquette (Terms of Appreciation, You want fries with that?), even parking lot etiquette (Parking Wars).  We didn’t think we’d have to ever discuss death etiquette.  Apparently we do.  Not only have we now seen how people can’t keep their pettinesses out of the paper, we’re also aware of viewings, wakes, and services which have been interrupted by arguments, fights, and visits by the police who weren’t there visiting the deceased.

Clearly the best way to approach this issue is proactively.  We plan to write our own obituaries.  And while we’re at it, plan the rest of the party as well.  Who knows us better?   We’ve all read obituaries that just aren’t quite right.  Is the surviving son in Sonoma Sam or Sid?  Didn’t daughter Debbie divorce Dick the dolt?  Since when did he belong to the Loyal Order of the Goose?  It’s understandable.  Obituaries get written in times of extreme stress and grief.  And apparently nobody is checking them too closely for content.  We’ll get the details right.

Some other details about our last hurrah need to be worked out also.  It’s not that we want to celebrate death but we both are of a faith that looks forward to an afterlife with our God and those who have already gone.  You guys left behind have to learn to suck it up and wait your turn.  So no mournful music, no dreary dress, no dull visitations.  We prefer lots of light, pictures, upbeat music, and something spiffy to wear.  We don’t want to look like we’re going to a funeral at our funerals.   We think perhaps a bright blouse, tropical print shirt, and maybe a straw hat at a jaunty angle is a good tone to set for the rest of the crowd.   

Speaking of tone, no organ music at the funeral home.  There are stacks of jazz CDs in both of our cars.  Pick out a couple of handfuls and hustle them over to the mortuary.  If they can’t figure out how to work a CD, find someone under the age of 30.  He or she will be able to download them all onto an MP3 player to make it go on through 2 or 3 visitation sessions without having to change it.  At the church we’d like to hear some upbeat scripture readings.  David chatted about topics plenty more upbeat than “the valley of the shadow of death.”  Fast forward a couple of psalms to “remember your love and kindness…not my sins from when I was younger” for something more chipper and probably a little more accurate where we’re concerned.

Now, getting us around on that last day.  Do we really have to use a hearse?  Dull, dull, dull.  There’s a perfectly good red convertible in He of We’s garage.  Prop up Whichever of We in the passenger seat and let’s go out for a spin.  That just leaves the closing music.  Everybody has passed on by, said “see you later,” and now we need some final travelling music.  She of We thought perhaps, “And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain” sung by nobody other than Frank.  It is a terrific send-off for her with the living a full life, tasting it all, and doing it her way.  He of We is leaning more toward keeping the party going and is calling on Irving Berlin to pave the way with Alexander’s Ragtime Band.  We have to wait until halfway through the chorus but there the lyrics say it all, “Come on along, come on along, let me take you by the hand. Up to the man, up to the man, who’s the leader of the band.”  

We know it’s not a terribly original idea.  People have been making their own final arrangements for some time.  You take away a lot of stress at an already stressful time for stressed out people who aren’t always thinking their best.  We figure we’ll pick the mid-price packages all the way around preserving as much of the inheritance as we can and nobody has to feel guilty about taking the cheap way out.  Between the cool clothes, upbeat music, optimistic readings, and cheery bon voyage, nobody will notice we’re going in little more than a high class pine box.  And if they do, nobody can blame anybody but us.  And frankly, we really won’t care.

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

That Play’s The Thing, That Thing They Do

Michael Leave a comment

Have you ever been to a local community theater production of … anything? 

Those of you who answered yes are excused from the remainder of this missive.  You’re welcome to stay but you probably won’t read anything you don’t already know.  Then again, maybe you better stick around.  You never know what’s going to march across this screen.

Those of you who answered no are hereby put on double secret probation and you can’t get off of it until you go.  For Heaven’s sake, go!

Really, we are that taken by the power of the local community theater, from the over-acting to the kitschy program books, to the recorded music, to the cramped theaters.  This is entertainment.

Ok, this is also a little weird.  Grown people reliving their high school spring musical days?  Actually, it’s not so weird.  Grown people honing the talents they discovered in one of the “youth is wasted on the young” activities we’ve all been a part of but few keep alive.

Think of the other activities that made up your younger days and how you felt about them then.  Swimming every weekend at the local pool, knowing for sure that Greg Louganis was no match for your diving skills.  Confidently matching across the football field stepping two, turning left, stepping eight, twice in place, turn right, all while playing the flight song on your clarinet.  Even Benny Goodman couldn’t match your style.  Speeding along on the Schwinn, Day 4 of the Tour de France and your fourth day in the yellow shirt.  Taking the layup to the hoop, your hands above the rim, your signature shoes shimmering in the light of the studio lamps filming the commercial that used to feature that has been, Michael Somebodyorother.  Healthy activities every one.  Healthy imaginations to go with them.  Imagination.  A commodity many fear will never again reach the peak when we were young now that computer games have overtaken recreation as the child’s national pastime.

Now wait a minute, who is to say it has.  Don’t kids still ride bikes, and swim on weekends, and play high school sports, and march in bands?  Maybe we’re being a bit unfair.  Their imagination is still working.  It’s just taking a different turn.  And there are still high school musicals every spring.  (You knew eventually we’d get back to that, didn’t you?)

Those high school musicals.  Who didn’t walk out on to the stage knowing his or her next entrance would be at the Tony Awards?  But while the swimmer and the musician and the sports figure in us have stepped aside so we can fit into our adult life, the actor has found the community theater.  The actor, the director, the stage hand, the producer, the set decorator, the wardrobe and make-up artists all still have a home, a legitimate home where imagination still features raising the silver medallion of the masks comedy and tragedy.  So we applaud the actor, the director, the stage hand, and the others for sharing their imagination and presenting some of the most energetic live theater you’ll ever experience.

Paul Newman said, “To be an actor you have to be a child.”  We agree.  You have to have the wonder that children know and adults crave.  While the professional gets the great opportunity to live that wonder throughout a lifetime most of us only get fleeting moments of it as adults.  Throughout those little theaters tucked away in every neighborhood where lines are tortuously rehearsed, directions are painstakingly prepared, and stages are carefully dressed, the wonder of youth bathes everyone who enters.  Even the audience.

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

 

Mail Call

Michael Leave a comment

Late last week He of We had a horrible revelation – the Christmas cards!  The writing, the signing, the addressing, the stamping.  So much to do and none of it done!  But, even with the distressing press the United States Postal Service had been putting out, He of We was (yes, was) still a firm believer in the mail system.  They will get the cards through even if they are posted a tad later than usual.

The post office really has been taking it pretty hard lately. And a lot of the criticism has come from inside.  Now, we still believe that even at twice the price of today’s First Class postage, mail is a bargain.  For under a buck, under half-a-buck you can mail a letter on the east coast and have it get all the way to the west coast in a couple of days.  And people look forward to getting cards and letters.  Not everything has to be as immediate as e-mail.  And not everything should be as impersonal as e-mail.  Yep, cards, letters, and even bills belong in the good old-fashion, first class stamped, real mail.  However. . .

That was last week.  This week is a different story.  On Monday there was no mail.  No real mail.  Lots of junk mail.  And delivered very early.  So early one might wonder if there had been any sorting going on for that day.  Probably just a coincidence that even between Thanksgiving and Christmas a mail delivery day would go by with no personal mail being delivered.  But on Tuesday it was a banner day.  Ten pieces of real mail delivered.  Real mail, mail someone had to put into an envelope and affix postage.  Ten pieces.  Unfortunately only 6 pieces belonged at He of We’s address.  Of the other four, one belonged on the same street several houses down, two belonged in the same neighborhood 2 and 4 streets away respectively, and one was for a different ZIP code.  (Trivia time – what does the ZIP in ZIP code stand for?)  And then Wednesday came and again, not a single piece of personal mail.  Hmm.

Is this the way the USPS wants to be remembered while nightly news shows broadcast stories of cutting services, then not cutting services, then delaying first class mail, then no changes until Congress has a chance to turn down their request for additional funding.  Is someone trying to make a point? 

Christmas still is the biggest mail delivery period.  Mother’s Day gets more cards and probably weighs down more letter carriers for a single day, but for a 3 to 4 week period you can’t beat Christmas for being the tops in mail holidays.  You’d think this is when the service would want to shine.  This is when you’d expect to sit down to the evening news and hear how the USPS has set another record in mail tonnage moved over the shortest time for the most reasonable rates.  This is when you expect to walk into a post office and find at least one counter rep wearing a Santa hat – willingly. 

This is the most wonderful time of the year – and we have songs that say so!  It shouldn’t be the time you sort your mail with “one for me, one for the guy next door, one for me, one for little boy who lives down the lane, one for me, one for the guy who lives in the next town.”

We’re certain that the one day the mail was 40% wrong was just a fluke.  But just in case, we’re delivering our letter carriers’ gifts personally.

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?