When I was little, I would cut out every Washington Post Magazine’s Sunday restaurant review, written by my hero Phyllis Richman, and save them in a folder (while all the other kids my age were out making friends and being normal). When my family and I would go to restaurants, I’d mentally write my own reviews of the food (The French fries, while deep-fried to crisp perfection, were slightly over-salted, burying the true delicate flavor of the potato.). Okay, so I was a big fat loser. Some things never change. I am still a huge dork, and I still love the dining guide, which is now written by the restaurant-savvy genius Tom Sietsema.
The point is that I have come to expect certain things when I go out for meals, which include decent-quality food and a few basic expectations regarding the performance of the waitstaff. For example, don’t bring the appetizers before the drinks, don’t leave the check when you bring the dessert, don’t tell me your fucking name because I don’t care. Pretty simple rules to follow. After all, as a server, you have only one job: to successfully bring my companions and me my meal. That’s it.
Apparently, this presents an unfathomable challenge to many servers.
Paul and I had reservations for 9:45pm at the Melting Pot in Reston on Friday evening. After seeing Hostel (which, while entertaining, had almost thoroughly quashed our appetites), Paul and I headed to the restaurant early, with the intention of having a drink at the bar while waiting for our table. We sat down at the bar, and immediately Darwin’s missing link came over and stood silently in front of us, evidently waiting for our drink order. I requested a wine list and selected a glass of Clois du Bois, which he sullenly served. He then immediately presented the check, and only paused to mutter a clipped “thanks” when he returned moments later to reclaim the bill.
A short while later, the weaselly, diminutive host appeared to alert us that our table was ready. Paul and I collected our coats and drinks, and prepared to follow the him to the table when we were curtly informed that we will “need to settle up with the bar now.” I kindly informed the host that we had indeed already paid, and mentally calculated whether it would be worthwhile to douse the little douche in the remainder of my $11 glass of wine. (I decided against it.)
We were then seated and informed that Brad would be our server for the evening. (I cannot possibly comprehend how this information will be of use to me; am I expected to start hysterically shouting “Brad! Brad!” when I need a bit more water or an additional napkin? Or does management suspect that my server may at any time take an extended leave of absence from my table that would require me to ask other servers of his whereabouts?)
Brad was a marginally decent, if not forgivably informal server. The cheese and the salad course went smoothly, and our entree was served without incident. However, as Paul and I were finishing up our main course, Brad appeared suddenly, bearing a striking resemblance to a heroin-addled rabbit being chased by a pack of ravenous cougars. He hyperactively inquired, “How’s it going? Everything okay? What do you think, another fifteen minutes? Twenty? Okay? Sounds good? Okay!” He then sprinted away.
I understand that at this point, it was 11:40pm. Yes, that is rather late to be finishing dinner. But I have been to the Melting Pot maybe ten times, and I can assure you that unless you are a laconic anorexic, you can plan on dinner taking at least two hours. If I know this, then surely management knows this as well, and has taken this into consideration before granting me a 9:45pm reservation. So why does it seem that Brad is now ready to sell his mother to on eBay for $1 to get us to vacate his section?
Paul and I finished rapidly, declined the offer of dessert (to which Brad enthusiastically replied, “Good! Very good!”), and requested the check. We had a $50 gift card which we presented to Brad, so that he could deduct that amount from the bill prior to presenting it at our table. He scurried away and came back a while later, check in hand, and announced, “Did you want to just pay the rest in cash?” Paul and I must have looked dumbfounded, because he continued. “I mean, it’s $8.77, so did you want to just pay that in cash? Or I can swipe a card, whatever you want.”
To you, this may seem mundane and hardly a point for contention. Perhaps you just had to be there. I was, and let me assure you, it was astounding. I know he was in a hurry to see us leave, but that was absurd. I expect the server to leave the check and then get the hell away from me while I manipulate my finances, select a method of payment, and calculate a reasonable tip. The only circumstance in which is it even remotely acceptable to have somebody quote me the bill and question my payment choice is when I am obtaining my meal through the window of my vehicle. The Melting Pot is no such establishment.
These sorts of dining mishaps really vex me. I suspect that Paul and I appear to be young enough to fall into the category of diners with whom the server can be ‘cool’, as opposed to anyone above the age of thirty who may actually expect some small semblance of professionalism. This assumption leads servers to treat us much more casually – like the waitress at Macaroni Grill last week who took to passing us food over the high wall at the end of our booth to spare herself the drudgery of walking an extra ten feet. I mean, come on. Why is she even there? Oh, that’s right, to bring me my food. And if she’s not doing that properly, then why am I tipping her?
Contrary to what you may now believe, I am not a demanding bitch; I just expect a people to do what they are being paid to do, and to perhaps do it with a bit of finesse. Or even just competence. I’d settle for competence.