By
Tom "raspberry vinaigrette is for sissies" Waters
February 16 2004
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Nobody
wants to see a staff person forced to wear pinwheel hats with
stupid buttons and recite foolish menu options by parroting
the same dialogue that a million other robots were taught at hamburger
college.
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Dining out is a very tricky
proposition. When I was fourteen, I worked as a dishwasher at a restaurant
that used to reheat their cornbread rolls after they’d been out at someone’s
table, manhandled, and uneaten. This is a fact that’s never escaped
me, and that’s why I understand my father’s panic and paranoia regarding
dinner dates. He’d rather stay at home and cook than worry about someone
dropping his strip steak on the floor in the kitchen in a puddle of
bleach, sneezing on it, and throwing it back onto the plate after the
ten second rule. I suppose the trick to enjoying a meal out with friends
or loved ones is not to dwell too much on the fact that the food comes
into contact with other people before it shows up at your table. My
mother, on the other hand, goes out to eighty five lunches a week. She
stacks up reservations in rapid succession and goes off into the wilderness
with her old lady friends in search of new diners, eateries, and buffets.
I’m somewhere in between. When I go out (which I don’t do very often),
I do it in style. I starve all day, throw on a tie, and pack a full
money clip. Whether it’s a friend’s birthday, a celebratory brunch,
or a pub crawl, I like to get the most out of it. Why? Because I’m dangerously
antisocial. I can’t stand being in public when it’s not necessary, and
consequently, I don’t get out much.
Not many people know the
difference between a salad fork and a regular fork. For your edification,
the salad fork is the short one. It’s in poor taste to eat with your
elbows on the table, and it’s horrendous to wear a baseball hat out
to a meal unless you’re at a fraternity mess hall. My big brother and
I hold ourselves up to an impeccable code of etiquette and go crazy
when others can’t adhere to the same at surrounding tables. I went out
to dinner with a beautiful young woman last week and came dangerously
close to swallowing my tongue in a blind rage thanks to a neighboring
booth full of young, drunken girls and their monster of a child. When
the trailer park escapees weren’t rocking back and forth on the other
side of my seat, their demon spawn was either doing a ripping impression
of Phil Collins with his silverware or screaming his head off to the
delight of his dinner party. I reserve a special vein in my forehead
for bad manners, and it was pulsing on orange alert level. Why this
gaggle of girls would torture the rest of the establishment on a weekend
with this sort of infraction is beyond me, but they were better off
going to Chuck E. Cheeses for the night instead of an upscale eatery.
My date was sweet enough to lean over during a trip to the bathroom
to inform them that they were being outlandishly obnoxious. This is
the sort of thing that will merit another dinner out in my book.
My friend Richie and I have
lofty standards for customer service in the service industry, and will
flip out when we don’t receive satisfactory performance. We went to
a steak house a few months back and I waltzed in beaming and looking
forward to prime rib. I told the waitress that I wouldn’t need the menu
and that I’d like the largest slab of prime rib they had. She told me
that they wouldn’t be serving prime rib until 3 p.m. We walked. What
did they have to do, wake up the cow? There’s an ice cream parlor we
go to as a guilty pleasure whenever we get a vicious craving (rhymes
with Hans Christian Ampersand) for a sundae and they screw up one of
our orders irrevocably every single time we go. Luckily, they take turns
messing up one of our orders, so we keep coming back. Since he has a
hair-trigger temper, we both do our best to keep the other person from
throwing things, launching drive through orders back through the drive
through window (which Richie has actually done, mind you), or losing
our shit completely and giving a loud, lengthy discourse in the middle
of an establishment as to why it shouldn’t be impossible to get our
order correct in a speedy, efficient manner with pleasant service and
breaking things at the same time. Being well steeped in customer service,
we expect the best.
In a given dinner situation,
nine times out of ten a guy will order part of a chicken or part of
a cow. We may read the entire menu back to front and agonize over entrees
and appetizers and toy with the notion of trying something pasta based
or without meat, but like a homing pigeon we return to the beef or the
chicken. Unless of course the man is a vegan, but then he’s really not
a man at all, is he? Depending on my mood or the weather, I order prime
rib or chicken fingers. There’s not much deviation from that. My filet
mignon days are over and I’ve enjoyed more than one veal parmesan, so
I’m going through a prime rib renaissance. Women who just order salad
on a date infuriate me. It’s kind and well meant to buy something cheap
and healthy, but don’t insult me. You’re not fooling anyone. You don’t
eat healthy constantly and watch your figure like a hawk, ladies. I’m
sure if I caught them at the right moment, there’s a time of week (or
certainly a time of month, if you follow my drift) where most girls
cram entire cheesecakes into their mouths or eat a tub of Ben & Jerry’s
mixed with a grocery bag of peanut M & Ms in their sweatpants while
watching "Sex & The City." Like I said, I like to do it up when I go
out, so I’d prefer that my date follows suit.
Decor, ambiance, and all
that other crap doesn’t amount to jack squat in my dining decisions.
I couldn’t care less if there’s a moose head on the wall or fancy romantic
candles fashioned from glasses with wicker baskets wrapped around them
or wacky stop signs hanging from impossible angles. I don’t go out to
eat so I can look at the walls and admire antique memorabilia or stupid
sports jerseys. Music is sort of important. If I can find a place with
stained wood and bad ‘80s music, I’m comfortable. Good service is important,
waitresses with great bodies don’t hurt, and it’s a good measure if
you can go to a place with a well traveled wine list. I don’t drink
wine, but if a restaurant knows their wine, they’re invariably proficient
in other things as well. I tend to avoid chain restaurants or corporate
foodbags because I prefer individuality and character. Nobody wants
to see a staff person forced to wear pinwheel hats with stupid buttons
and recite foolish menu options by parroting the same dialogue
that a million other robots were taught at hamburger college. It’s demeaning
to everyone involved, and dignity is in short enough supply in the world.
My grandfather taught me
to tip over the top at all times. It’s good karma. Life’s too short
to skimp on people who thrive on the kindness of strangers. Unless a
waiter or waitress is so rude as to snap at me, hurry my order, or forget
about my table, I see no reason not to tip at least twenty percent.
There are enough cheapskates in the world and too many people calculate
fifteen percent or under as it is. I was a pizza delivery boy once upon
a time and I know how a poor tip can destroy the happy face you put
on for the customer. I treasure every meal I take in with the people
who are close to me, but at the same time, I inspect the cornbread with
a black light and a portable magnifying glass.
