A Blessing and a Curse

I love eating out. I am not sure when I received, or where I developed this gene, but I do love eating out. That is probably why I don’t have any money.

That’s where the problem starts

Somewhere along the line, during the growth of this preference, I have developed a keen sense of what is right, and what is wrong at the places that I choose to patronize. My poor family. I am pretty sure I have mentioned before about my daughter always walking ahead of the family when we are being seated in a restaurant–just so she can decide where I should sit so she can be sure that I can’t see anything in the restaurant….usually facing a wall, if at all possible.

I do try to go in with a completely open-mind about the experience I am about to have, but too often the occasion goes south in a hurry. Let me give you an example…

I am out to dinner with my family, celebrating my daughter’s graduation from high school. My folks are in town, and I find myself in the position of trying to accommodate all concerned–including the server and the kitchen.

I always feel better once we have ordered

I know my daughter is stressed about being late to the ceremony, so I am urging everyone to decide on what they want right away, so we can get our order in and (hopefully) relax. I let our needs known to our server, letting her in on the fact that we are going to order as soon as my other daughter is done parking the car.

Great. My daughter comes in, I tell her to figure out what she wants, get the attention of the server and we proceed to order. Now, I watch as this server takes an order for 6 people without writing any of it down. I turn to my daughter and say something like, “What are the chances of her getting this right?”, or something to that effect.

Not tonight, Dad

This particular evening is about my daughter’s accomplishment, not my dining experience. But, what am I to do? Doesn’t she realize that if I had not taken charge of the situation, we would all still be there waiting to eat? That it is only because of me that she is going to get out in time to get to her graduation? No, she doesn’t.

The food comes out fast–just what we needed–and the server got almost everything right. Almost. That’s right, she only screwed up one person’s order. Any guesses what order she messed up? Yeah, that’s right, mine.

Not tonight, Dad

When I start to tell her that I got the wrong thing, I got the following: Glares and kicks under the table from my daughter, and accused of being wrong from the server. Yup.

The server who did not write down the order is telling me that I am wrong that I did not order what I was trying to say I did order. You know, basically calling me a liar. I convince everyone that I am fine, defusing the situation, and eat my meal. I did mutter under my breath to my wife, “In the 25 years you have known me when have you ever heard me say the words Swiss cheese?”

Hyper aware

I am keenly aware of what the situation is in a restaurant on any given night. It is a sick disease. I have pleaded with readers of this blog in the past to give me some answers on how to deal with this problem Isn’t there some restaurant chill pill I can take?




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