Practically There

Service with a Smile

"No, I've never been here. I've heard that they are pretty good - oh, well, you've been here before, right?'

"Yes. Yes, I was here before and it was pretty nice. We had the most enormous dessert called something like Death by Chocolate. It was this frozen chocolate with chocolate, over that was drizzled chocolate, and just in case you were not satisfied with the prospect of being in a chocolate coma, they included a cup of chocolate to dip your chocolate into! God, it was huge and between the two of us we almost didn't finish it. Anyway, tonight we will get something a little more substantial to eat, okay?"

It was a conventional dialog between a mother and her seventeen year old son as they entered a local eatery one blustery night in mid-December. Never could they have foreseen the transgression that was shortly to be perpetrated upon them in the name of Hospitality and Food Management. They had been lured to this spot; enticed by the expectation of consistent quality service and the promise of delightful delectables. But, only disappointment would be found on their menu this evening, disappointment with a side-order of disillusionment, leaving only the bitter taste of regret in their mouths. I am that mother and this is my little story.

It seemed a simple enough plan, a quick bite to eat, some coffee and a little conversation before our return home; our return to the pragmatism of real life. Dining out had always been regarded as a luxury, an out of the ordinary occurrence where for a short time you, as the diner, are a guest. Where for a sum of money one is taken care of, needs met before they have even been realized, hunger satisfied, and thirst quenched and for a few odd moments you are king or queen of your entire domain. Nice theory.

After our seating, a rather brusque young woman dressed in the stock eatery wait staff flair was able to tear herself away from a riveting exchange about the events of the previous evening long enough to toss a couple menus in front of us and inquire as to what we would like to drink. "One diet Coke and one cup of coffee, please," was the reply. Sean's carbonated beverage was to return shortly after, but it became apparent that I was more likely to see my fifty-third birthday before that hot cup of java was to reach anywhere close to my general vicinity.

Proceeding to order, we had only wanted something light; a sandwich, some fries, for me a bowl of soup and maybe, just maybe, oh, I don't know, a cup of coffee!? And thus, with the enthusiasm that one would maintain for, say, a body cavity search, our waitress was off, never to be heard from again. Well, almost that long. In the course of our ordering, I had noticed that a small band of attractive young college aged men had entered the restaurant and been seated near us. This was going to be a problem. Not that the eye candy wasn't an agreeable addition to the oh -so -hip-Irish pub-meets-Neiman Marcus surroundings, but that our wait staff of one had also honed these young men in on her radar, and on a scale of one to ten, a mother and son duo ranks down in the Kelvin type numbers when placed next to an assemblage of Adonis'. This was going to be a long night.

Eventually, some of our food arrived, one rather messy sandwich, no napkins, one bowl of soup (hot on the outside, cold inside) and one cup of coffee, but no cream. The fries would be coming shortly. I had finished my soup, before I flagged down another member of the wait staff, a lovely young woman who was quite apologetic when I explained that evidently our waitress had taken a holiday, would she please be able to get some napkins to supplement the one that we were currently sharing, could I please have some cream for my coffee and might she be able to find our wayward French fries. Within moments, everything that I had requested appeared before us. Overwhelmed, I thanked her endlessly and for a brief moment held hope that the evening and the meal had not been a complete bust. That hope was dashed about 20 minutes later, when, our hunger satisfied, we wished to pay our tab and have wrapped what we could not eat. We waited patiently, attempting to make eye contact with the waitress on numerous occasions, but as she was involved with the most important business of giggling, bantering and hair tossing with the previously mentioned male models the prospect of redirecting her attention toward something as mundane as her job was looking slim. As my son could see by my expression, this little game was getting very old and I had become rather agitated. Finally, I approached her and informed her that we had been done for a while; if it wasn't too much trouble we would like our bill please. Apparently, wherever she hails from, soliciting a check is tantamount to kicking someone's dog because she looked at me as if I had just asked for her kidney. She proceeded to storm over to our table, enclose a check in a small leatherette billfold and tell us that she could take this when we were ready. I asserted that we were as ready as we ever would be, inserted an amount of cash into the billfold and informed her that she could keep the change as her tip. This seemed to brighten her spirits a bit and she bounded off. Astonished at the fact that I had left her a tip; my son asked why I had done such a thing? Wouldn't she get the point that she was a terrible waitress if I didn't give her a tip at all? I explained to him that I was a waitress when I was younger and that, it is one of the more difficult jobs, but certainly not an impossible job and had I not left a tip she might think that I had simply forgotten or that I was merely too cheap. What I had done was give her $14.00 to pay a $13.97 bill, leaving her with a $.03 tip, thereby hoping to make my point that this was the amount at which I valued her service. It was apparent that my point had been made when she handed me the take home bag, and through clenched teeth, bid me a good evening. In retrospect, I regret not having tipped the pleasant young lady who had been such a help to us although we were not her patrons.

So endith my story of our service experience in a local place of business, but this is not the end of the story. As we exited I was left with a feeling of anger, antipathy and strangely a certain unease that the owner of this franchise was, at best, not doing all that he/she could to insure that the customers were contented and at worst, not even aware that, because of these oversights, they had just lost two customers. Two customers who most assuredly would be recounting their experience to as many people as were willing to listen. "Slainte"

But, hey, that's just me talking.

"Honest criticism is hard to take, particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance or a stranger."
- Franklin Jones