"I'll be fast," she just said. "It doesn't take me long to be eloquent."
Thelma is writing a blog as we speak. She is itching to get something out. I can guess what it is.
We just returned from dinner with my parents and siblings to celebrate my mother's 60th birthday. Thelma and I walked into the Olive Garden lobby a fashionable ten minutes late at 6:40. My brothers had been there since 6:00. By the time we arrived, the natives were already restless. By seven o'clock the situation was becoming dire. We had been told repeatedly that a big party was getting ready to leave and we couldn't be seated until they had left. Meanwhile, numerous smaller parties were coming and going all around us. At 7:15, my brothers told me I needed to go deal with the situation as the oldest. I did my best to make the host and hostess uncomfortable about the situation. When that didn't help, I asked to speak to the manager.
Restaurant or retail managers don't always bring out the best in me. Sometimes I can be very cool and collected. Other times, not so much.
I remember going on a date with Thelma once. We took the ferry to Whidbey Island. It was a stormy day with very few people out and about. We ventured to the west side of the island where the Strait of Juan de Fuca meets the Puget Sound. The wind was pumelling the shore with giants waves and thowing sea spray across the road. The sky was dark and foreboding.
For a storm lover like me, it was a perfect night. Then it happened. The Dog House.
The Dog House is a tavern/dining room in Langley. It's one of the those places that is supposed to be so alive with character that the food can't help but taste good. The New York Times has described the Dog House like this:
"On the waterfront, the Dog House tavern — the Dog as it’s called by locals — seems to have enjoyed as many lives as a cat: a general store; a high school gymnasium; a site for vaudeville shows, silent movies, dance classes and, perhaps most improbably, meetings of a ladies’ temperance society. Today, it seems like the kind of place where you might encounter many a salty dog."
What you won't encounter is good food. My meal was a dog. The clam chowder had frozen chunks floating in it. My fish tacos were cold. My temper was high. If they could have tapped into my rage, they could have run the defective microwave they had obviously used to prepare my meal. I refused to pay for it. I was angry. I was argumentative. My reaction would have made quite a scene but there was no one else in the restaurant. Just Thelma, the waitress and the manager. We could have brought the cook out to join the party, but I don't think they actually had one on site that night.
Whether or not I ultimately paid full price, I don't recall. I just remember the rage.
Tonight, thankfully, was a different story. It was the calm, cool, collected me that asked to speak with the manager at the Olive Garden. The host we had been harassing with questions of "how much longer" went to find him for me. Even that took some time. After a pass or two through the restaurant, he came to tell me that he was having trouble finding him, but there was one more place he could look. I saw him duck into the men's bathroom. A few moments later the manager emerged looking a bit hurried.
I shook his hand and told him my name. (Perhaps the hand shake was a bad idea. Just how hurried was he coming out of the restroom?) I nicely explained that we had been waiting 75 minutes to get a seat. I told him how it didn't appear they valued our business. I told him the effusive apologies were appreciated, but really didn't do anything to help the situation.
About that time one of my brothers came over to say he had found another place that would seat us right away. My other brother approached the manager.
"Thanks a lot for making us wait two hours."
"I'm very sorry, sir."
"Shut up."
My brother won't win any awards for eloquence or conflict resolution, but his contribution wasn't all bad. I was the good cop. He was the bad cop. The manager was much more willing to see things my way knowing that I was keeping an angry mob at bay.
The rest of the family left. I asked the manager what he could do to help make things up to my mother. He came back with a nice gift card. I smiled, told him I appreciated the gesture and thanked him and his staff for at least being courteous with us.
I left the restaurant feeling pretty good about myself for keeping my cool and getting some cash out of the situation. Then I thought, "Where did everyone go?"
Thelma is writing a blog as we speak. She is itching to get something out. I can guess what it is.
We just returned from dinner with my parents and siblings to celebrate my mother's 60th birthday. Thelma and I walked into the Olive Garden lobby a fashionable ten minutes late at 6:40. My brothers had been there since 6:00. By the time we arrived, the natives were already restless. By seven o'clock the situation was becoming dire. We had been told repeatedly that a big party was getting ready to leave and we couldn't be seated until they had left. Meanwhile, numerous smaller parties were coming and going all around us. At 7:15, my brothers told me I needed to go deal with the situation as the oldest. I did my best to make the host and hostess uncomfortable about the situation. When that didn't help, I asked to speak to the manager.
Restaurant or retail managers don't always bring out the best in me. Sometimes I can be very cool and collected. Other times, not so much.
I remember going on a date with Thelma once. We took the ferry to Whidbey Island. It was a stormy day with very few people out and about. We ventured to the west side of the island where the Strait of Juan de Fuca meets the Puget Sound. The wind was pumelling the shore with giants waves and thowing sea spray across the road. The sky was dark and foreboding.
For a storm lover like me, it was a perfect night. Then it happened. The Dog House.
The Dog House is a tavern/dining room in Langley. It's one of the those places that is supposed to be so alive with character that the food can't help but taste good. The New York Times has described the Dog House like this:"On the waterfront, the Dog House tavern — the Dog as it’s called by locals — seems to have enjoyed as many lives as a cat: a general store; a high school gymnasium; a site for vaudeville shows, silent movies, dance classes and, perhaps most improbably, meetings of a ladies’ temperance society. Today, it seems like the kind of place where you might encounter many a salty dog."
What you won't encounter is good food. My meal was a dog. The clam chowder had frozen chunks floating in it. My fish tacos were cold. My temper was high. If they could have tapped into my rage, they could have run the defective microwave they had obviously used to prepare my meal. I refused to pay for it. I was angry. I was argumentative. My reaction would have made quite a scene but there was no one else in the restaurant. Just Thelma, the waitress and the manager. We could have brought the cook out to join the party, but I don't think they actually had one on site that night.
Whether or not I ultimately paid full price, I don't recall. I just remember the rage.
Tonight, thankfully, was a different story. It was the calm, cool, collected me that asked to speak with the manager at the Olive Garden. The host we had been harassing with questions of "how much longer" went to find him for me. Even that took some time. After a pass or two through the restaurant, he came to tell me that he was having trouble finding him, but there was one more place he could look. I saw him duck into the men's bathroom. A few moments later the manager emerged looking a bit hurried.
I shook his hand and told him my name. (Perhaps the hand shake was a bad idea. Just how hurried was he coming out of the restroom?) I nicely explained that we had been waiting 75 minutes to get a seat. I told him how it didn't appear they valued our business. I told him the effusive apologies were appreciated, but really didn't do anything to help the situation.
About that time one of my brothers came over to say he had found another place that would seat us right away. My other brother approached the manager.
"Thanks a lot for making us wait two hours."
"I'm very sorry, sir."
"Shut up."
My brother won't win any awards for eloquence or conflict resolution, but his contribution wasn't all bad. I was the good cop. He was the bad cop. The manager was much more willing to see things my way knowing that I was keeping an angry mob at bay.
The rest of the family left. I asked the manager what he could do to help make things up to my mother. He came back with a nice gift card. I smiled, told him I appreciated the gesture and thanked him and his staff for at least being courteous with us.
I left the restaurant feeling pretty good about myself for keeping my cool and getting some cash out of the situation. Then I thought, "Where did everyone go?"
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