It seems no matter where you dine in this town, you can expect service that is ignorant and apathetic at best, annoyingly disrespectful at worst. Some of the smaller, immigrant-run joints still have a good attitude and some semblance of a work ethic, but the chain restaurants especially are terrible. The servers seem to all have a collectively understood sense of unconditional mediocrity, which is splendidly combined with a complete lack of motivation or willingness to make your dining experience anything other than a dismal failure. I got it, working in the food industry is tough, but your sole vocational purpose is to create an enjoyable atmosphere wherein people can escape the drudgery of Wednesday night meatloaf and "Go out to eat." This seemingly carefree endeavor is immediately curtailed when the team of winners serving, hosting, and preparing your food are too absorbed in wondering where their next fix is coming from to actually do their job.
Both Michelle and I are well seasoned ex-restaurant food service warriors, having served meritoriously from the rank of dish washer, all the way to manager. As the colloquialism goes, we have "room to talk."
At risk committing some sort of libel, I will refer to the restaurant as Shmed Shmobster.
The following takes place between the hours of 6PM and 7 PM.
Jeff, our roommate for the time being, at least until his plane and the rest of ADVON leave our country for somewhere slightly more sandy, celebrated his 25th birthday this Sunday. Given the limited choice of restaurants open on Sunday in Lawton, we decided to head to Shmed Shmobster. Not my particular favorite, but it had been a good 8 years since my last visit, so I figured we could give it a try.
Our first clue that this trip would be a disaster was the initial table choice our 14 year old hostess decided upon. Two dudes, clearly not related, pregnant wife, and a two year old in a booth? Try again Taylor Swift. Table please.
Once seated, our illustrious waiter, sporting what can only be construed as a "chin-strap" of facial hair, approached our table and asks "Gonna have a {sic} appetizer, yeah?" Listen fuckstick. First of all, normal people extend some sort of innocuous greeting upon initially meeting someone for the first time, even in this setting. I know the 4 other tables in this place probably have you and the 6 other waiters all flustered, but get it together. After hearing my eyes give him the "What the fuck did you just say?" look, he immediately dove into the seasonal specials. "We have uh....grilled fish....its really good.....um....some of the drinks are new....and uh.....there is some other stuff too." Congratulations retard, you managed to conclude through your weeks of training and certification that Shmed Shmobster has fish. Winner Winner, grilled trout dinner.
The initial greeting catastrophe complete, we order our drinks and C's typical chicken finger basket. We also agree upon some lobster nachos after the initial stun of this winner. This decision will turn out to be regrettable.
Soon the kiddo's fried chicken arrived, and as per SOP, the wife begins to cut it up into delicious bit size morsels for the munchkin. While high speed is setting down the culinary abomination known as Lobster Nachos, the following dialogue took place:
Wife: "Sorry, I don't think this chicken is cooked all the way through..."
Winner McWinnerstein: "Oh, well, do you want me to take it back?"
No, idiot. With any luck the 40 watt bulb hanging above our heads will cook this chicken to a 160 internal sometime before the mayan apocalypse in 2012.
Wife: "Please do. Thanks!"
At this point he must have told his manager because shortly thereafter she approached our table and apologized for this egregious error and assured us that Shmed Shmobster doesn't run in such a terrible manner. She promised us that the child's meal would be removed from the bill.
SIDE NOTE: Michelle and I hardly ever complain in restaurants, and when we do we hardly ever accept free shit because we just want the restaurant to run more smoothly. This time however, we took the free food.
At this point, we finally partake in the nachos. This must be the recipe:
1. Create the worst tasting cheese sauce you can conjure up, pour on plate.
2. Take 1/4 ounce of lobster, sprinkle on plate.
3. Take remaining half gallon of sour cream in fridge, place in middle of plate.
4. Generously place 3-6 chips around edge of bowl.
5. Leave under heat lamp until sour cream is at an unpleasant temperature.
6. Serve.
Each of us decided to deal with this heap of awesomeness in our own little way. A chip here, a nibble of lobster there. The plate was left mostly undisturbed because just as we were contemplating sending it back, our entrees arrived along with C's redone chicken. We gave each other the "No salad first eh? Oh well...these guys have had a tough time...we'll let it slide"
look. Turns out fate was not on the side of our waiter, who apparently has the situational awareness of a lawn chair, because just as the manager returned to our table to check on the entrees, Winner McWinnerstein rolls up with, you guessed it, a tray full of salads.
Manager: "Oh...diiiid you order your salads for after your entree?"
Yes, we did...we love nothing more than a delicious medley of vegetables and sauce after a meal mostly consisting of fried seafood. This is America, we eat our salads first.
McWinnerstein: "Oh....nope....sorry.....I was uh....busy getting the chicken redone..."
Right fuckstick. Absolutely irate after seeing this raw chicken almost poison my two year old, you decided to take justice into your own hands and take the kitchen staff to task. You educated them, ala Alton Brown, on the intricacies of temperature and thoroughness, and you took them through the complicated process of deep frying to ensure that such an error would never happen again. More likely, you were back there complaining to your waiter friends that my table was being a giant pain in the ass, and you can't wait to get home to light one up and play some Madden '10.
The manager then stormed off to review our bill, clearly trying to decide her next tactic at somehow recovering this table and single handedly convincing us to return to this bastion of seafood extravagance. Little did she know, that the war was lost. After eating our entrees, followed by our salads, we simply just reviewed how terrible the meal had been an even catalogued it on our phones for future use in writing a blog.
We got a dessert. On the house. It was cheesecake for birthday boy Jeff.
Lastly, to Winner McWinnerstein and the rest of the stupendous staff at Shmed Shmobster, thank you for maintaining the status quo and convincing my family and I that all hope is lost for food service in Lawton, OK.
Certainly the Most Warmest Regards,
D
so sorry to hear bout all that, mamma
ReplyDelete