Giving Them Your Two Cents, Literally

(My husband has been going to a certain restaurant with his coworkers several times a week. He says the food and service are great, so we decide to try it one night with our two teens. There is a long wait, but nothing to complain about. When we get to our table, it is a good 15 minutes before I am able to flag down a waitress and let them know that no one has taken our drink orders. I don’t think too much of it, because they are so busy. The waiter finally arrives and is pretty curt. We give him our drink orders, and he takes off. Another 15 minutes later, he finally comes with our drinks, puts them down, and starts to take off.)

Me: “Excuse me. Are you going to take our orders? We have already been seated here 30 minutes.”

Waiter: “Oh, well, if you are ready, I guess.”

(I order, and then my husband does, too. I think it is nothing complicated. My 16-year-old starts to order, when the waiter turns to me and asks what to bring the teens.)

Me: “They can order for themselves.”

(With a sigh, he takes down their order. He doesn’t bring our salads or bread until the actual meal comes out. And then, he takes off before I can get a refill on our drinks.)

Husband: “Didn’t I ask for no onions on my salad?”

Me: “Yes, and I asked for no tomatoes.”

(On top of that, some of the order is wrong; two of the meals are actually cold — there’s nothing worse than biting into cold mashed potatoes — and just all around not very good. But we do eat what we can, because we are starving. I see the waiter several times at a table a few tables away. It is full of young college girls that are all flirting with him, and he is flirting back. I notice he is there plenty of times during the meal refilling their drinks. I try to get his attention, but he takes off after talking to them. He never returns with our ticket or anything. Fed up, we get up and go to the front to pay. I put in two cents for a tip. The person signing us out asks if I meant to do that. I tell them I most certainly did. I don’t want the waiter to think I forgot him, but I want to let him know what I think of his service. A man standing by tells me he is the manager and asks what happened. I tell him everything, and point out the waiter, who is still laughing with the college girls.)

Me: “I have a feeling that if I had perkier boobs, I would have gotten some decent service. Too bad for him, because I am willing to bet we are better tippers.”

(The manager offered us a gift card. I told him no, thank you. I had no desire to ever return, because frankly, the food just wasn’t that good. My husband did take it, because he goes there for lunch. Apparently, the food at the lunch hour is much better. He tells me they’ve never seen the waiter there again.)