I picked a local favorite for my first official restaurant review and as I pulled my car in to park, I didn’t like what I saw. The dining process goes farther than just the food. Today’s “foodie” demands a complete culinary experience that begins with the decision to leave the house. A full parking lot may say a lot about demand, but when I have to park on the street and walk, the overall experience is compromised. As a food critic, you have to be tough. If you want to succeed, and make a difference in the culinary community, you can’t go easy. Not even on grandma.
I opened the door and the smells of a well-tended kitchen filled me with promise. At the request of management, all patrons were to remove their shoes at the entrance. I cautiously complied, trying to get a feel for the ambience, when one of the fellow patrons addressed me in an unusual manner.
“Sorry, we couldn’t wait any longer. But we did tell you dinner was at seven. Grandma made you a plate, now sit down and eat it before it gets cold.”
There were serious flaws here, and I considered leaving after I was refused a menu. If that’s how they treat a professional, what chance do you people have? Not only was it the only meal being served, but they had the nerve, nay, the guts, to serve meatloaf. Meatloaf with cheese. Possibly “cheese product.” They may as well have slapped a cafeteria-grade Salisbury steak onto that plate. The delicate palate of a connoisseur need not be tainted by a fatty slab of meat served in brick form like a hunk of government cheese.
As soon as I began to wonder how this would get worse, I began to look for a seat. Allow me to preface this by informing the reader that I have been seated in some tight seating arrangements. Likewise, I respect and appreciate the advantages of sitting close to your fellow man. I’ve been on both ocean liners and enjoyed Japanese style dining, and so have experienced communal seating. All of this I accept, and yet when I took my first good look around and saw but TWO tables, only ONE of which was occupied, I decided it was time to speak up. In my most polite, yet obviously annoyed tone:
“Excuse me ma’am, I can’t seem to give my meal the attention it deserves with all these people in my way. I would be much more satisfied if you could transfer me to that empty table, please.” You’d be amazed at what a little politeness, and a flash of the old clipboard, can get you. Usually.
As my request was denied, I became aware of how dry my mouth had gotten. I picked up my clipboard and starting scribbling notes as loud as I could. Nothing. Not only did it not garner a response, but they began to look as though it was me bothering them. If I had to sit there with these people, I was going to need a stiff drink.
“Ahem, I’ll have a beer please. Anything on draft.” And silence.
“Oh. Well I don’t think we have any beer. No one drinks it here so we don’t keep any around. Do you want some apple juice? I have some Orange Juice, your grandpa can’t have juices, you know.”
“ I’m trying to write up a generous assessment of this place, and you’re telling me there’s no beer? I get the whole grandma’s cookin’ thing, but I’d expect you to have a full bar. Dare I inquire as to which spirits you do serve?”
“None. There’s nothing like that here. As a matter of fact, whatever we did have, you drank up the last time you came over. Help yourself to some water; it’s what you normally have, isn’t it? That or the apple juice. It’s sugar free.”
I’m not sure what offended me more, having to endure a ‘dry establishment’ in a post prohibition era society, or being regarded as a regular to such a horrendous pile. I begrudgingly poured myself my own water, muttering loudly about the smudges on the glass. What lunacy is serving a meal, and then forcing your customers to make their own drinks? Between the service and the meatloaf, I truly began to wonder which was harder to swallow.
Just before my first bite the entire staff took their meal breaks. To my shock, they began sitting at the few unclaimed spaces left at my table. Had they all reserved seats at my table? What began as doubts became certainties. There would be no service for the remainder of the meal, thus cleansing myself of any remaining delusions.
I joined the rest of the crowd in their meal and cut a proper taste portion of the brick of meat and let it dissolve on the portion of the tongue thought to have the highest concentration of taste receptor cells, and a mistake it was. I spit that sorry chunk of meat right back in her face.
“If the nuances of palate lie in subtly ma’am, then the darkest horrors of culinary injustice lie within your loaf. Wipe that meat off your face and stick some in your mouth if ye be so bold.” And I’ll be damned if that chunk didn’t cut a path in her wrinkles, sliding right into her mouth.
“I don’t mean to offend you in front of your patrons, though I can’t imagine they are unaware of the many flaws in your establishment. Truth be told, you hardly look like a grandma. And turn off the TV. Is this a sports bar or family dining?”
And that wasn’t all. This crazy old lady just kept the leftovers sitting on the counter three feet away, wide open, and I’ll be damned if there wasn’t a fly sitting on it staring right back at me. A goddamned fly. She should be so lucky if I don’t have the health inspector wound tighter around her than her three day girdle. Don’t even get me started on this dog under the table that we’re all pretending not to notice. When I thought that I had seen the worst, the old man next to me took out a hypodermic needle and stabbed himself right in the belly. ‘Grandma’ tried to cover, saying he was her husband, and that was a diabetic. In this business, we don’t allow special favors to family. You can be damn sure that’s making the article. The day it goes to press I’m going to tack a copy to the door, right next to the ‘Condemned’ sign.
I couldn’t eat another bite, but I couldn’t leave either. I knew to take as many notes as possible, for there was no way I could subject my own memory to a burden so heavy. I reverted to my training and keen culinary instincts, clearing my mind, letting my senses absorb. I took a deep, deep, breath and felt my body relaxing and my mind at ease.
“So what ever happened to that nice girl you were dating?”
Deny me of a menu, parking, warm food, sanitary conditions, service, and a decent meal. But this was insulting. And, if I may add, well deserving of the swift backhand I administered.
I refused to take another moment of this. I stood up and gathered my materials.
“Before you leave, remember you were going to put in that light bulb for your grandma, I can’t reach it.”
“That’s all you are, a list of can’ts. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. You’re not so grand now, are you grandma? And your meatloaf tastes like foot! Lightbulbs? I’ll be using every bit of my free time to write as scathing a review of this wretched experience as possible.
“And if you’re going to double park the driveway, offer valet. I’ll be updating my blog.”
