Bad Dining Experience

            One unseasonably warm, lazy Thursday afternoon my boyfriend and I meet another couple at a restaurant. It was the kind of day perfect for taking a sun nap in the park or enjoying a meal with friends. The night before Alabama had claimed its fourteenth national champion’s college football title. Our friends, who we were having lunch with, were unfortunately not able to enjoy the game with us. So we had four hours of edge-of-your-seat football to rehash with play-by-play animation, not to mention the bowl game playing in the restaurant. (There were many plays to be compared to Alabama’s all-winning playbook.)

We all sat at our table and ordered our deliciously fried food in an environment that can only be described as a sports fanatic’s dream. I could think of no better way to celebrate my football frenzy.

            As we received our food the conversation at the table is still in play reviews from the first quarter of previous evening’s game with sprinklings of predictions for the outcome of later bowl games. Although hunger is rapid at the table after a long night of celebrating our teams victory, the elation that we all had rehashing the game caused us to almost altogether ignore the wafting fumes coming from the baskets of fried chicken wings smothered in sauces from Asian to bar-b-que to peanut butter, each bite in front of us dripping with flavor and delicious heat. Tension at the table is building as each member of our party is drawn between two primal instincts, for anyone growing up in the state of Alabama: consuming deep fried chicken and talking about football. It was a special occasion indeed when the two combine so smoothly and effortlessly in such a perfect way. What could anyone want more than a National Championship and their favorite wings?

            Five minutes of this glorious tension had risen around the table. I had given in twice to a bite of fries, and our friend Tim had broken conversation for an entire wing. Other than these indiscretions conversation was still flourishing. We were now all revving up to relive the boiling anger we felt at the announcer’s atrocious comments during the halftime report of the previous night’s game.

“Can I bring you anything else?” asks our peppy waitress. 

After a round of ‘no, thank you’s and ‘we are fine’s, she leaves us to our elated lunch… for two more minutes.

 “Would you like your checks together or separate?”

This moment is when I look at my food to check if it is still warm – I mean there is a possibility that I have let time get away from me – but the wings are still steaming their bar-b-que flavor, named Bar-b-que Eli Gold, in honor of the infamous voice of Alabama football and more than appropriate in the current situation. We were all confused why she was asking this so soon, but we reply with the traditional “separate,” and then the conversation is back to football.

            Our checks arrive promptly, so we began to make a more conscious effort to participate in the meal portion of this outing.

“Can I get you some to-go drinks? How about a couple of boxes?”

Swiftly, Styrofoam cups and boxes fill any available space at the table. What was this smiling affront to our meal?

            I left with most of my fries (which are never good after they hit a to-go container) and four out of the five wings I ordered. My party never relived past the third quarter leaving my meal and football season seemingly incomplete. I left lunch still hungry and without the energy to continue our outing, unless we deemed to eat our food picnic style on the grass outside the restaurant. (We did not.)

            After complaining in terms of “I cannot believe…” and “Never in all my life…” halfway home, it dawned on us that we could have complained to the management, and should have. We were the diners, we were the ones paying for the service, and we could have been in control of the meal. My boyfriend was so upset with our oversight that he almost turned around to go back to the restaurant to speak with the manager on duty.

            However, for some reason, the notion to speak with management did not cross our minds while in the restaurant. If your food is cold, the order is wrong, or you have had a longer than average wait time, then you ask for a manager. The girl in this case met her every obligation and gave us prompt and happy service, so we felt obligated to comply with her request for our party to fulfill our part of the dining script. This is why the cardinal rule of waiting tables is the just that: your customers will leave unhappier if they are rushed than if you have to cook an order twice. While other cardinal rules are broken, such as do unto others as you would have them do unto you (I certainly do not want to be cussed in traffic as much as I cuss other drivers), the rule in restaurants is scared and should always be respected. The dining experience ruined my day, my love for the restaurant, and the perfection of Alabama’s fourteenth national championship.

** I purposefully left out the name of the wing restaurant because I have never received bad service other than this occasion and I do not feel it is a proper reflection of their wait staff. However, anyone who has seen the wing menu will know where my dining catastrophe took place.