God has a sense of humor. How do I know? He made this big old stupid world, right? And everyone in it.
Including me. Now, I’ve been a douche a time, or two–or three. If we’re honest, we all have.
That disclaimer out of the way, here are some of my pet peeves:
On the evening of April 1st, my wife and went to visit my father-in-law (who is recovering from surgery). The visit went well, he’s doing well. That was all fine and dandy. Afterwards, we knew we needed to get a few things from the store. Also fine, but first: we were hungry.
So we went to one of our favorite Mexican places (which we hadn’t been to in quite awhile), were seated, asked for water, etc.
We placed our orders. But there was something missing…
Chips! Our waiter hadn’t brought any. Thinking that perhaps this was a sign of the economic times, I asked him. His answer:
Did I mention this was April 1st? Even so: he wasn’t fooling. Not having those crunchy, delicious bits of fried corny goodness was like a kiss without a squeeze, or (for those that roll that way) apple pie without the cheese. (Who puts cheese on pie? Eww!). <--it's the Canadians, right? Figures! Our meal--incomplete though--had me at burrito! Om-nom-nom! ---------------- The next day, mainly because I had to, but mostly because I wanted to, I took an extra day off work to spend time--sans kids--with my beautiful bride of 21+ years. It being the day before her birthday, I wanted it to be special. We went out for breakfast; which, thankfully, was uneventful. Then we went shopping. I don't know about you, but shopping always does two things to me: I get tired, and I get hungry. (And maybe just a wee bit cranky, too). Anyway, because we were relatively close (relatively being about fifteen miles), we decided to try out this place we'd seen on T.V. Famous for their pies, they also have a cafe for the road-weary traveler. It's quite historic--having been since the late teens of the last century. It's also, being so old, quite rustic. Ok, it's pretty much a truck stop. <--this we didn't know ahead of time, ok? Anyway, we park, walk into the gift shop--to the left is the saloon, to the right, the "restaurant"--and seat ourselves (there's a sign telling us to). I excuse myself to the restroom; when I get back, my wife tells me: "A girl came over with menus, asked about drinks. When I asked her about the fajitas, you know what she said, 'I'm not your waitress. I just bring drinks.' How was I supposed to know?" How was she indeed? (Hint: she wasn't). If someone comes to your table bearing: menus, cutlery, and asks about drinks, what would you conclude? It gets better. We finally make the acquaintance of our waiter. Or, rather he deigns to grace us with his presence. You know the type: God's gift to waitstaff, and patrons, everywhere. Talk about putting on airs! This guy didn't want to be there. Like the "waitress on graveyard, and the surly night manager" in Randy Stonehill's cheery Yuletide ditty, Christmas at Denny’s, captain douchecanoe was “wishing that all of us losers would leave.”
Or at least just my wife and I. So we did. (Hope he enjoyed his 9% tip).
That was Monday afternoon.
Because I’m a little slow, and because–I don’t know–it was her actual birthday, I decided to try again, and take my wife out for a quiet birthday dinner.
Did I mention anything about God having a sense of humor? I did? Ok.
While we’re waiting to be seated, I excuse myself to the restroom to freshen up (this is a recurring theme in my life–ask my wife); while I’m gone, she’s seated.
She texts me, I find her.
In a restaurant with an abundance of available tables, where do we two introverts get seated?
In the cheering section, or in other words: next to four drunk guys pounding shot after shot.
We tried–we really did–we tried to abide. But after we counted four, or five, rounds, and some other tables opened up, we asked to be moved.
And we could still hear them!
Apparently we weren’t the only ones who complained. And we will go back at some point. After explaining that it was her birthday, the manager did right by us, and comped our meal.
Like I said, God has a sense of humor, or sometimes maybe He just likes pushing our buttons a little. I suppose there’s a lesson in all of this about life not always–or ever!–meeting our expectations.
Or maybe He’s telling us not to dine out anymore?
Or maybe it’s a lesson in patience?
I don’t know. It’s definitely one of those three, or four.
How about you? What was your worst experience dining out?