Fine Dining

I love to eat out in nice restaurants with friends. I enjoy the whole fine-dining experience, beginning with a glass of chardonnay followed by a salad of mixed greens. Now, I may be dating myself with the next statement,  but I remember a time when a dining guest could enjoy a salad, even finish it before the entree arrived.

Back-in-the-day, there was also a rule about not removing any plates until everyone at the table had finished eating. To remove one’s plate any sooner, would leave the still-eating guest feeling (a) conspicuous, like everyone was watching him/her eat, or (b) a sense of urgency to stop yapping and finish the meal, or (c) afraid  that any lapse in fork to mouth activity might signal restaurant personnel to remove the plate.

Another one of my fine-dining service irritants is that of auctioning food.

“Spaghetti alla Bolognese?” the waiter barks, balancing hot plates along  his forearm. No one ever admits to having ordered whatever it is the waiter is trying to unload because (a) the person who has ordered the dish doesn’t know that Spaghetti alla Bolognese is the same thing as spaghetti with meatballs, which happens to be what he asked for, or (b) the guest is dining alone, how difficult could it be for the waiter to remember what he ordered?

I was at a nice chain restaurant last week with a date, and yes, our entrees were delivered promptly after we started to eat our  salads. The waitress waited for me to slide my plate over as she muttered a disclaimer about the food being hot and to be careful. I’ve come to expect this; it happens so often–not the hot food, but the accelerated service.

I wondered if I had a  sign on my back that said, “I’d like to get this whole evening over and done with fast!” Like the kind those service dogs wear. You know damn well the pooches don’t know they’re wearing ‘em. The ones  that say, “Don’t pet me, I’m working.” It’s like they’re thinking, “Do I have a sign on my back that says don’t pet me? Who walks up to a dog and doesn’t pet them? Hello!”

I could have asked the waitress to take the food away until we had finished our salads, but that would have been making a scene, and besides,  if I’m going to eat food that’s been sitting  under an incandescent light bulb for twenty minutes, (because you know that’s what they’re going to do) I could just stay home, and plug in the ol’ Easy Bake oven.

On this particular night, my date finished his meal before me, no surprise, since the only thing jumbo about the  shrimp he ordered was the toothpick it came on–but don’t get me started on that.  As soon as he put his fork–er–toothpick down, the waitress whisked his plate out from under him then turned to me.

“Would you like a box?”she asked.

A box? For what? I had only eaten about a third of my food, and was in fact STILL EATING, when she asked.  I know this because I had to take the fork out of my mouth to tell her that I didn’t need a box, but that I might need a box once I’d (a) consumed enough and couldn’t eat any more, or (b) the plate was empty. I’d signal this by putting my fork down which tends to be, but not always, the universal symbol for I’m done eating. It was not likely that I would need a box, however; since as I mentioned before, the serving sizes were proportionate to the Easy Bake oven cake pans.

Once I’d made it clear that I did not want my plate removed yet, she turned to my date and asked, “Would you like dessert?”

Dessert? Hello! I WAS STILL EATING!

No, my date did not want dessert, at least not yet, maybe later after I had finished…

But, that was not to be. No desert, or coffee for that matter, for anyone.  The waitress left,  but returned promptly with the check. “I’ll take care of this whenever you’re ready,” she said, placing the bill in front of us. Finally, she was going to wait for us to be ready.

When I returned home, I gave my my little dog, Oscar a pat on the head, because I could.  Even though he’s not a service dog, he is Johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to fulfilling all of my needs. Assuming those are  limited to having a fur-belly to rub, and an empty chow-bowl to fill with  left-overs from the proverbial doggie bag.

“Sorry, Oscar, I don’t have anything for you this time.”

Oscar growls a rhetorical, “WHAT?” Then tells me in a snarly tone, “When the waitress offers you a box, you accept it and THANK her, and be grateful for the meal that YOU COULD NOT FINISH!”

I think I know a little dog who’s getting  a sign on his back.

*Photograph courtesy of Julie Donnellan. **That’s my sister.