For our two-month “anniversary” dinner, the person I was dating and I decided to walk down the street to a vegetarian cafe that had been recommended to us by several friends. We were both mostly vegetarian, but we had been known to occasionally slip up in that regard. This is sadly relevant.
We had the impression that this place was a friendly hole-in-the-wall with heartfelt vegetarian and vegan food, but they had recently done some rebranding to have more of a bistro feel, with bright white walls and linens, candlelight, and waiters in ties. Since it was an “occasion,” we were a bit dressed up, too, so it was all very charming.
We apparently didn’t polish our turd selves quite enough.
As we walked into the restaurant, which had just a handful of tables, we were asked if we had a reservation. We did not. The host/server (who could have been an understudy for Captain Peacock in “Are You Being Served?”) rolled his eyes.
Server: “Reservations are required since we only have a few tables.”
This made perfect sense, but we honestly were not aware of this fact.
Server: “Luckily, we can work you in this evening.”
We were taken to the shame table by the kitchen doors. Our friendly staff member returned with drink menus and food menus.
Server: “What would you like to drink?”
Date: “I’d like a few minutes to look at the drink menu, but could I perhaps start with some water, please?”
Again, our friend the server rolled his eyes.
Server: “We don’t have ‘water’. We have triple-filtered water from [Nearby Springs]. It costs [amount] per glass.”
That was good to know, but the eye-roll was confusing.
Date & Me: “Yes, please, that sounds delicious.”
When he returned with the ‘not water,’ he asked sarcastically if we’d had enough time to choose a drink. We had.
Me: “I’d like the Lavender Gimlet, please.”
He looked at me, shocked, and then replied, suddenly becoming very French:
Server: “Oh! You mean the le-VAHN-der zhim-LAY!”
I apologised and confirmed that that was what I wanted. He delivered the drink with great flourish, repeating, “Le-VAHN-der zhim-LAY!” several times for effect.
Then, I ordered dinner. I ordered the bibimbap. Before I ordered, I explained that I wasn’t familiar with this dish, so I’d probably mispronounce it. “Bye-bem-bahp” is what came out of me. “Bee-beh-BOHH” is how he corrected me.
Server: “I see you aren’t familiar with vegetarian cuisine.”
Me: “Oh, I’ve been vegetarian on and off for the past fifteen years or so.”
Of course, that was the wrong thing to say.
Server: “Oh, so you’re not a real vegetarian. See, we take things very seriously here. No wonder you’re unfamiliar with everything.”
And with another eye-roll, he disappeared.
My bee-beh-BOHH arrived in short order, and I consumed it and my Le-VAHN-der zhim-LAY in awkward silence.
The food was delicious, but the ridicule was a bit over the top. Our good buddy never checked on us again, though he did occasionally throw disparaging looks at us from the host stand. Interestingly enough, no further patrons entered during our entire meal.
Eventually, our friend returned, removed our dishes, and silently returned with the check. It’s hard to describe, but I had the impression that he didn’t believe we would be able to scrape together enough money to pay the bill, even though it really wasn’t outrageous.
The date completely fizzled out, and the relationship shortly behind it. In fact, the restaurant outlasted us by only a matter of weeks. I can’t help but wonder if the rapid transition from hole-in-the-wall to haute-haughty did them in.
