Fast, Cheap, or Good: Pick Two

When it comes to dining out, I usually only pick one: Good. The only time I want Fast is if I am in my car and speaking into a squawkbox. Cheap? Well, Cheap is a term that can be rather difficult to define. For my purposes, I will define it as ‘inexpensive and served in a manner scaled down to various degrees from the vast pampering one might get at a place with no prices on their menus’.

What happened to the concept of good service at a restaurant? Is it unreasonable to expect at least a modicum of service, even at the most basic family diner? I mean, I don’t expect a perfectly presented dessert tray if I am eating at Big Boy’s, but I do expect to not be left sitting menu-less for five minutes before a wait person can tear him- or herself away from a conversation with her coworker.

We all know that restaurant workers work for their tips. To me, a tip should not always be an automatic gesture, especially if the service was poor. The only time waitstaff normally do not get tipped from me is when I have been forced to get up and walk out because I was left sitting excessively long before a menu even arrived. First impressions do count. And there are a million other places we can go to eat.

Now, I have worked in the service industry more than once in my long and illustrious career. I discovered that most people appreciate efficiency coupled with non-intrusiveness on their privacy and intimacy. People dine out for numerous reasons, the most basic of which is that one of the party did not feel like cooking. Perhaps they are looking to celebrate an event in their life. Perhaps it is date night for those old married couples. Or, they might just be looking for a fun place to eat.

Today, we walked out of two different restaurants because of bad service. It left a sour tone on the remainder of my evening, if briefly. The first was a Mexican food place, usually very middle-of-the-road in food, service, and atmosphere. It was late enough in the afternoon that we missed the normal lunch crowd and beat the dinner crowd, but still the seven tables of occupants were all sat in one tiny and cramped area of the non-smoking section by the hostess (who was acting under the direction of the four waitresses standing and chatting nearby. If there were four waitresses, there was no need to shove all of us into one tiny area, was there?) I tried, I did. I sat down, and within a minute the hostess was seating a loud boisterous family at the table directly behind me. Dad bumped my chair while he was trying to lever his girth between his wife and my chair. I felt as though I were on an airplane, and briefly considered asking the waitress when the in-flight movie was going to start. But I didn’t. Because she had not shown up yet. I waited a full minute, and then could not take it anymore. We got up and walked out, even before one of the four waitresses could come by and drop menus on the table. I don’t feel guilty about the necessity of having to do this on occasion.

So, we shook it off and decided on another place.

Where we walked in, and were directed via appropriately-located signage to seat ourselves. The front lobby was a ghost town; I wondered briefly if we came in during a robbery, or some other Stephen King short story horror. Ten full minutes went by before a waitress appeared. There were only three tables of other diners in the place when we entered. Allllllrighty, then. I took a minute to check my back to see if someone toggled my ‘ignore’ switch into the ‘on’ position. This was not looking promising, but at least I didn’t have Willie the Whale whanging unapologetically into my chair while he tried to sit down. The boy did his best to distract me with quickly-fabricated stories of his time in the Navy. That was the highlight of our visit, unfortunately.

Finally, a female someone looked out from the kitchen and saw that not only were we there, but three more tables full of hungry people had shown up after us. She hurried out and apologized, explaining that she was training another waitress in the kitchen. I bit my tongue and shifted in my chair, quickly perusing the proferred menu. She brought our drinks quickly enough, and we ordered a pizza.

And waited. Waited while the other three tables that came in after us were served, each in turn. Waited some more. After 30 full minutes, I stood up. The boy followed suit. As we were walking toward the front of the restaurant, the waitress magically appeared with our pizza, and an apology. I asked her if she wouldn’t mind putting it into a box for us to take home with us, and then made my way to the cashier while the waitress hurriedly composed our check.

The cashier spat out the usual ‘was everything okay’? without making eye contact. I told her in a quiet voice that no, it was not okay. We had been her for 45 minutes, in an almost empty restaurant and watched while three tables full of people who came in after us and ordered similar things as us were served their meals in a timely manner. She barely heard me. She turned around without a word, and wandered off. The waitress now handed me our check without making eye contact and I stood there waiting for the cashier to come back from checking to see if she were wearing just the right thickness of lip gloss so I could pay it and we could go home and eat our pizza.

She came back just then, and asked again if everything was okay. I just blinked at her in disbelief. We paid our check and left. I don’t need to tell you that the conversation between the boy and I on the way home was filled with incredulity and disappointment.

On the plus side, the waitress had written the wrong size pizza on our bill, charging us for a small when we ordered a medium. I am not sure if she did that deliberately, or if she was just flustered because not many people just get up and walk out like we did.

On another plus side, the pizza was one of the best I have ever had.

Figures.