I Have A Bone To Pick...

We’re such rebels. We celebrated Valentine’s Day on Saturday instead of last Thursday. My parents had given us a gift card to one of their favorite restaurants, Bonefish. We’d taken them there for their anniversary and the food was excellent so we were looking forward to it.

We’d made a reservation for 8:30 but ended up getting there a little bit early so we had to wait. The joint was hopping. We overheard the gal at the door tell those arriving without a reservation that the wait was an hour and a half.

Our table was, in my opinion, one of the best in the house. It was in a corner; it was quiet. Perfect for the romantic, date night dinner we were anticipating.

Chris, our waiter, made his appearance. He seemed to be a nice fellow and took our drink orders (tea for MrWurdi; a Hendricks martini – stirred and water with no ice for me). In a reasonable amount of time, considering how busy the restaurant was, he returned with the tea and water, chock full of ice. They were busy. I didn’t say anything. I fished my ice out of my glass with a fork and put it in MrWurdi’s tea.

When Chris returned later, much later, with our bread and my martini, I was impressed. Chris could have been an actor. He was smooth. There was no monotone recital of the ingredients in the olive oil (Italian butter, by his reckoning). He had this description down to an art form. It was interesting. Seriously. I am not at all being sarcastic. It was a great description of the oil. He probably could have recited the menu and it would have been entertaining. He was an actor and Bonefish his stage.

Since this isn’t one of our regular eating destinations, I was unfamiliar with the available sauces. I had to ask what was in the sauces before making a decision on which I’d prefer with my scallops and shrimp. Then, after I found out what was in them, I wanted to decide which of the available wines would best go with my dinner. I wanted to know if the steamed vegetables were simply steamed or if they were also buttered. Since they were buttered, I wanted to know if it was possible to get them without butter. You see, if they’re only available buttered, I’ll get one of the other sides and manage my portions.

Fortunately, the crowd had eased up at this point and it wasn’t all that busy anymore. Unfortunately for us, Chris, the handsome and entertaining actor/waiter, did not really want nor did he appreciate audience participation. This is where I began to feel like I was ordering my dinner from my car through a clown’s mouth. If you’re going to use the drive-through, it’s good to know what you’re going to order before you get to the clown’s mouth. You and the people behind you expect speed at a fast food restaurant. I don’t want to be rushed through my meal at a place with candlelight, linen napkins and a decent wine list. Chris rushed us through the ordering process and seemed rather impatient with my questions about the food. The audience isn’t supposed to care how the set was made.

When our meals arrived, our beverage glasses were empty and had been for a while. The wine was nowhere in sight. My steamed veggies were coated in buttery badness. The manager, Mr. Don Driscoll, had been working the room. He chose this moment to come and ask about our Bonefish experience. Err. When we, tactfully, told him, he not only asked what he could do to turn things around, he did it. He took both of our meals back to the kitchen (so we could both have hot meals at the same time) to get my veggies minus butter. Within a few moments, Chris was there with water and tea. Mr. Driscoll, himself, returned with our meals and my wine. Chris came back with more bread and was friendly and interacted with us. I’d made no mention of actor/audience, so this was a nice change.

A few notes on the menu items and food:
There are fourteen martinis offered on the menu. Not a single one contains gin.

I won’t order the Caesar salad there again. Powdery parmesan cheese is icky.

The bread was not good and I wasn’t interested in wasting Points on it.

MrWurdi’s dinner was Lily’s Chicken. A “fire-roasted chicken topped with creamy Chèvre Goat cheese, sautéed spinach, artichoke hearts and a lemon basil sauce.” It was fantastic. Chicken at a seafood place? I’d have never guessed it would be so good.

The steamed veggies, the veggie of the day (spaghetti squash), and my shrimp and scallops were delicious.

Chris failed to deliver on the requested ice cream with MrWurdi’s dessert. Fortunately, I just wanted a bite or two of my brownie so MrWurdi got my ice cream.

While Mr. Driscoll saved the experience for us, Chris hurt his tip with the first three-quarters of his service and only slightly redeemed himself in the end. We left 15% and a note to read this blog.


Service: I paid for that, just not as much as I normally would.
Management: Mr. Driscoll will be paid in future business.
Food: I paid for that, gladly.*







*Okay, Mom and Dad (with the gift card) and I (covering the balance) paid for that. Gladly.

Right, Left, Rights, Rights, Rights

Kate Hopkins at the Accidental Hedonist posted recently about A Diner’s Bill of Rights and a reciprocal, Restaurateur’s Bill of Rights. I like both and, of course, have comments about them.

Leslie Kelly, a writer for the Seattle Post Intelligencer, compiled the Diner’s Bill of Rights below:

• Diners deserve to be treated courteously, to be greeted warmly at the door and thanked on the way out.
• Diners deserve to be waited on by a properly trained staff working in a properly staffed dining room.
• Diners deserve to hear the list of specials with the price included. Don't make us ask.
• Diners deserve to be addressed as anything other than the generic "guys," as in "What can I bring you guys?" to a table full of women. Ladies and gentlemen is fine. Ma'am and sir may seem retro-stiff, but let's bring it back.
• Diners deserve to be treated as guests, not as if they're burdens. No water glass should go dry, nor dirty dish be left long after the last bite has been taken. No diner's butchered pronunciation of a dish should be corrected. Eyes definitely should not be rolled.
• Single diners deserve a prime table, too, not a spot in Siberia.
• Diners deserve to be satisfied with their meals. When a member of the waitstaff asks "Is everything tasting wonderful?" and it's not, the diner has the right to say so and have that complaint addressed promptly. It's important that a restaurant be given the chance to make it right.
• Diners deserve to determine the pace of the meal. If you'd like to linger over appetizers before ordering entrees, say so. Don't bring the main course while I'm in the middle of my salad. If diners are pressed for time, trying to make a play or a concert and they let the wait staff know in advance, the guests shouldn't have to go hunting for the server to deliver the bill.

The only one I really disagree with is "Diners deserve to be treated as guests, not as if they're burdens. No water glass should go dry, nor dirty dish be left long after the last bite has been taken. No diner's butchered pronunciation of a dish should be corrected. Eyes definitely should not be rolled."

Please, don't take my dish quickly or hover over me waiting for me to be finished. Please, don't take my companion's dish before I'm finished. Both make me feel rushed. Please wait until all the diners at the table are finished with the course and then take our dishes. You may politely, tactfully, correct my mispronunciation. A roll of your eyes will decimate your tip.

Kate, the Accidental Hedonist, responded with the Restaurateur’s Bill of Rights:

• A restaurant has the right to expect that a person who makes a reservation, will be on time for that reservation, and not show up twenty minutes early or twenty minutes late and still expect to be seated.
• A restaurant has the right to expect the customers to not steal napkins, silverware, salt and pepper shakers or anything else that does not belong to the customer.
• A restaurant has the right to expect the customers are respectful of other eaters on the premises.
• A restaurant has the right to question anyone who has eaten over half of a meal and then send it back saying they don't like it and they won't pay for it.
• A restaurant has the right to question anyone who demands a seat on a busy Saturday by claiming they know the chef or owner of the restaurant.
• A restaurant has the right to refuse service to anyone who orders something that is not on the menu. This includes making "chicken fingers" for little Johnny.

I completely agree with Kate's Bill of Rights, especially customers being respectful of other customers. Recently, DO and I ate at a restaurant where we had to raise our voices significantly to hear one another. We were seated rather closely. It was, supposedly, a nicer restaurant.

Kate’s full article can be found at The Accidental Hedonist.

I am behind on several blog posts of my own and hope to have several for you next week, including the two from my Coming Attractions post.

There's Something Fishy About This Place

DO and I planned our trip carefully. We'd be coming through Birmingham on the way home and I'd been telling him about this great place called The Grape since I'd eaten there one year earlier. We decided to stay the night and DO reserved a room at the Tutwiler. After a rather disconcerting welcome at the Tutwiler, we settled in, rested for a while, then took the hotel shuttle down to the 5 Points area.

Much to our disappointment, The Grape was closed for renovations and we didn't want to go to their other location so we strolled around for a while trying to come up with a Plan B. Our favorite pizza place, the Mellow Mushroom, is in the area but neither of us were in the mood for pizza. Our tastebuds had been preparing for something a little different.

The Sekisui Pacific Rim Sushi Bistro and Beyond restaurant looked interesting so we went there. While the decor was rather cool, the temperature of the restaurant was not. It was muggy.

I decided to have cold saki instead of my normal favorite. I'd not yet tried the Sayuri and was pleasantly surprised. It was great. Served in a pink bottle, concern about it remaining cool necessitated a request for a container of ice in which to keep it.

The menu was interesting. None of the sakes were listed and some of the available salads weren't. The conch salad was on the menu but wasn't available. DO ordered a chicken teriyaki for an appetizer and I had the seaweed salad.

I was surprised to see that a sushi place had foie gras on the menu. I love foie gras but even the mango salsa served with it wasn't enough to make me comfortable eating foie at a sushi restaurant. It just didn't seem right, somehow.

The toro sushi wasn't listed on the menu, either, but there was a card on the table that did show it. We asked our server, Randles, if it was available. It was. I was thrilled. As I've mentioned before, we don't exactly live in a culinary mecca. To find toro sushi and foie gras within 100 miles of home was unexpected and delightful. I ordered the toro along with albacore and my standard spicy tuna. DO was thrilled to see they had a volcano roll and hoped that it would be similar to the excellent ones he'd had in Gulfport and Pensacola. California roll, a crunchy shrimp roll, and tamagoyaki (omelet sushi) completed our order.

The seaweed salad was excellent. The combination of flavors and the addition of shrimp and a ponzu sauce made it different than other seaweed salads I've had. There was also a bed of sliced cucumber under the seaweed that added to the already nice mix of textures and flavors. DO's teriyaki chicken was, well, teriyucky. At least in my opinion. If it hadn't been called teriyaki, it probably would have been fine. There was no sweetness to the sauce. All savory and no sweetness does not a teriyaki make.

The sushi arrived some time later. The plate was nice looking but didn't match the artistry we've seen at Phuket. I planned my sushi attack carefully. Light flavors first, stronger flavors later, and a bite of volcano roll at the end was my plan. I decided to have the toro first. I'd never had it before but have been looking forward to it ever since I first read about it at Slashfood and The Delicious Life. Prepared to be amazed, I took a bite. I was apathetic. It wasn't cold. It wasn't even cool. It was kind of room temperature and the room, as I mentioned earlier, was muggy. Muggy sushi, especially muggy raw sushi makes me nervous. Ever adventurous, I moved forward. I tried the albacore. Albawarm. Spicy tuna? Spicy tepid. The volcano roll was tasty but certainly not traditional. As I told DO, it made me think, "Funnel cake sushi."

The service was fair, if a bit slow for the crowd. However, Randles earned her more than 20% when she noticed which sushi had been left on the plate and I told her that warm raw sushi made me nervous. She went over and talked to the sushi chef. I wasn't trying to avoid paying for our food and think I made that clear. If it had been enough of a problem, I would have sent it back.

All in all, while we probably won't go back, I don't mind that I Paid For That.


~I Paid For That Bonus~
After DO and I left the restaurant, we wandered back toward The Grape and called the hotel to request a shuttle. While we waited, we were approached by a rather unkempt fellow who seemed to be struggling with staying upright. He walked right up to DO saying, "You're a tall man... A big guy... I wouldn't want to run up on you in a dark alley."

"You don't worry about a thing when you're with him, do you? He takes good care of you, doesn't he? I bet you take good care of him, too?" This guy was good.

An older fellow, he assured us that he was already quite drunk and was not asking for money for more alcohol but would like to buy a sandwich. Before he actually asked for money, he conversed for a while.

He talked about his interest in history and when on to name several Caesars. He wasn't at all threatening and was actually rather interesting. He finished up his little conversation with us by addressing DO.

"You got a good woman there. You better hang on to her. If you ever let her go, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. It don't matter how many other women you get, not one of them will ever measure up to her."

I gave him a handful of change. DO getting that kind of advice? I don't have the least bit of problem that I Paid for That.

Meat Me in the Mountains!

Have you ever been to one of those “tourist towns” where the economy is dependent on the tourists but the locals seem to hate the tourists? Especially in the South, you get a lot of the, “You ain’t from around here, are ya?” attitude. I expected much of this attitude when DO and I visited North Georgia and never saw it.

Blue Ridge, GA is a small town. The restaurants can’t serve alcohol because they are located in a dry county. You can purchase beer and wine Monday through Saturday but can’t consume it in public. If you want liquor, you have to go to the next county. So, what does that mean? Usually, it means mostly Baptist, cliquish, country folks who like simple country cooking, frown on wine, and wouldn’t know prosciutto if it came off their own pig. That’s okay. I’m not saying there’s anything at all wrong with that. It is what it is.












DO and I were in Blue Ridge to spend the weekend with friends. We’d rented a cabin in the mountains and planned to ride the motorcycles to Helen, GA(a little slice of Germany right there in Georgia, USA) on Sunday.











I’d volunteered to handle the food and do all the cooking. While you may think I’m crazy (and you may be right but not about this), I love cooking and entertaining. It’s relaxing for me. If I have time to cook and entertain, it means I’m not too busy or too stressed with anything else.

I’d brought some food and seasonings with us - certain things I didn’t think I’d find in rural GA. My plan was to hit the local grocery store for the rest of what we’d need. We’d brought DO’s Royal Star over on a trailer* but the rest of the folks would be arriving the next day after being on their bikes for about 5 hours. I’d tentatively planned to have hearty snacks for when they arrived with dinner several hours later. I’d thought that if I could find a couple of nice pork loins, I’d stuff them with blue cheese and dates but if I couldn’t, I’d wing it with something chicken-based.

When we drove into town, I saw the restaurants I expected: the standard fast food joints on the highway, a BBQ place, a family steakhouse, and a few Mexican places. While getting the key to the cabin from the rental agent, I picked up a few brochures. One was for a local Italian deli, Angelina's Italian Market. Without the brochure, we’d have never seen it tucked away in a small strip mall. We hadn’t had lunch and it looked promising and the food met that promise. While waiting for dessert, I decided to check out the wines they offered for sale. The owner came over to talk wine with me. This is always nice and just a little bit intimidating. I like wine. I know a little bit about wine and I know what I like. I am not, however, an oenophile. I suffer from bullshitophobia. I am certain that one day, while standing in a wine shop, I will hear a voice shout:

“Poser! Plebian! Ignorant wannabe!”

Don’t get me wrong. I never misrepresent myself. I admit my wine ignorance. I apologize in advance for my clumsy mispronunciations. I just have that fear. Fortunately, my fears were once again unfounded. Mr. Wineshop and I talked about the wines. I told him what I planned to prepare if I could find the pork loin and said that I was looking for a “lighter” red. See, right there. I’ll bet there’s a proper wine term for what I was looking for but I don’t know it. I explained that I prefer the heavier reds – like Cabernets or Zins but thought a Pinot Noir or Shiraz might be better with the pork. However, I really wanted to go to the grocery store before settling on a wine. This is where Mr. Wineshop further answered his customer service calling. He told me about a specialty meat store in the area. Specialty meat? In rural Georgia? While stomach-turning visions of souse and pickled pig feet and chitterlings cartwheeled through my brain, I kept a neutral expression on my face. He offered to call and see if they had pork loins. Fortunately, dessert arrived and I was able to scour the chitterling thought from my brain with shared carrot cake and a napoleon. As we were finishing, Mr. Wineshop came back by with a hastily drawn map, a phone number, and news that Mr. MeatGuydid, indeed, have pork loins!

I happily purchased the wines. I was carded! DO was vaguely insulted. We headed off to the Enchanted Mountain Trout & Gourmet Meats (no website). While rather scenic in places, the trip didn’t encourage me much. This was rural Georgia and there were disintegrating shacks and junkyards and many other signs of a somewhat depressed economy. That demographic doesn’t really support gourmet grocers. We found the shop, parked in the gravel, and walked to the front door. Once inside, I was amazed. I live near a fairly big city but I found foods I just can’t find back home. Mr. MeatGuy, a retired Marine Master Sergeant, was expecting us. He had the pork loin ready, packaged some turkey sausage, offered a taste of some “low country pickled shrimp” which we promptly added to our purchases, and generally just impressed the hell out of us with his attitude, attentiveness, and excellent service.

We decided to go unload the truck and bike before going to the regular grocery store for the rest of our supplies. Thrilled that I wasn’t limited to “the Pig” and curious about Ingles (I’d never been), we took off in that direction.

Side note: In case it hasn’t become glaringly obvious by now, I like food. I like it a lot. I’m determined about getting good food. I’m a bit picky about it.

Ingles. In rural Georgia. Right there on the highway sandwiched in between various other strip mall tenants. Again, just like with Enchanted Mountain, I was amazed. Seriously amazed. I must have looked like the biggest country rube standing in the middle of Times Square for the first time. I’m sure my mouth was hanging open. The food! Foods I’d only read about! Endless varieties of vegetables, fruits, cheeses, condiments, and more. It was like I’d died and gone to wannabe foodie heaven! We took our time and had much fun.

One of the items on my list was an instant-read thermometer. I’d left mine at home and needed one. I also needed but hadn’t yet found some cotton string. The only meat thermometer I found was a big, honkin’ monster that stayed in the meat in the oven. I don’t like those but it looked like I was going to have to deal with it. While meandering down the aisles oohing and ahhing over all the cool stuff we don’t have at home, one of the employees, Mr. EveningStockerMan, asked us if we were finding everything. I mentioned the thermometer and the string. Normal service would have been for him to politely direct us to the correct aisle. Normal wasn’t good enough for Mr. EveningStockerMan. He not only went and got the items while we continued shopping, he also took the unwanted, big, honkin’ thermometer and put it back. That’s superb service.

It turns out that Blue Ridge is a vacation getaway for retirees who live part of the year in Florida, Atlanta residents escaping the city, and other fans of luxurious, secluded cabins in the mountains. The locals cater to these folks with a welcoming spirit. In fact, from what I saw that weekend, there was no, “You ain’t from around here” attitude at all and more of, “Welcome back home! We missed you!” one.

The only negative service experience we had on our trip was in Helen, GA. The six of us decided that since we were in Helen, we must have a lunch of German food. After a quick walk around the village, we decided that the Old Bavaria Inn was where we should eat.

There’s something that needs to be said. We are not tiny people. No one would ever think that we were runners or athletes or in need of immediate nourishment. However, we’re not freakishly large people, either. We all carry a few extra pounds but we aren’t being recruited for the circus.

When we arrived at the Old Bavaria Inn, it was after one. The lunch crowd had come and gone. We told the hostess we needed a table for six. She directed us to a table in the corner. We stood still and gazed at the table. The people sitting at the tables near that table regarded us warily - looking at us, then the table, then us, then their chairs which were mere inches from the chairs at the table. Six people could have been seated at that table. Six, legless, skeletal people who didn’t want to breathe and eat at the same time. We motioned to the table closest to us and asked if we could sit there, instead. Eight chairs were crammed around the table but eight people would not have fit. It would work just fine for six. The hostess, Frau YouVillObeyZeRules, told us that we could not sit there. We had to sit at the table with six chairs in case a party of eight arrived. We explained that we would not fit at the table for six and would prefer to eat in comfort. She would not hear it. We noted that it was a little late in the day for large lunch groups. That didn’t work, either. The waitress for that table (and we think part-owner), Frau SavedTheDay, told Frau YouVillObeyZeRules that it would be okay for us to sit at that table. Frau YouVillObey sucked in her breath, pushed out her chest and about to 1) blow the house down, 2) test the limits of her bra with her sizable bosom, or 3) argue some more when one of our party stated that we could just go somewhere else. While I think that would have been fine with Frau YouVillObey, Frau SavedTheDay insisted that we stay and sit, comfortably, at the larger table. The service that followed was exemplary, the beer cold, and the food tasty. The waitress completely salvaged our opinion of the Old Bavaria Inn.

So many excellent service experiences completely overshadowed that one bad hostess. Our wonderful weekend in the woods? We Paid For That. Gladly.


* DO believes that when going on an extended bike trip, it's always good to have at least one trailer just in case there's trouble with one of the bikes. This point was proven on the way home.

Come on, Baby... Let's do the Twist!

DO and I were recently in Atlanta for one night and stayed at the Conference Center Holiday Inn Select. Although there are a wide variety of wonderful places to eat and go in Atlanta, we decided to have dinner at the restaurant in the hotel. Between one kid taking a break from his hike up the Appalachian Trail and another home from college to take classes locally this summer, we don’t get much time alone with each other. That’s not a complaint. We love the kids and it’s great to be able to see and spend time with them. It’s just that we decided that by eating at the hotel, we’d gain an extra hour or two of private time.

The hotel restaurant had the promising name of the RockFish Grille. The “e” on the end of the word Grille is a sure indicator of fine dining and an excellent experience, right? With a separate bar/lounge on the property, a plush and well-decorated lobby, and a glance at the room service menu (to get an idea of the offerings) we were looking forward to a nice dinner.

The menu offerings were nice but not remarkable. We weren’t expecting Bacchanalia and although the prices at the RockFish Grille were higher than I would have expected, they didn’t seem too unreasonable. Entrees were, for the most part, priced in the mid-twenty dollar range. The restaurant was not busy and our server only had one other table.

I have a mini-rant and a glowing rave about our RockFish Grille experience. First, the rant:

I ordered a martini. I thought it would be okay. After all, the décor and the service so far had told me this was a somewhat upscale place. They had a separate bar. There was a decent wine list. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m rather picky about martinis; however, I have learned to lower my expectations a little bit and I’ve also simplified my order when I’m seated at a table instead of a bar. Bombay Sapphire, very dry (by the way, very dry means just a tiny bit of dry vermouth and not an absence of it), not shaken, with a lemon twist. It’s really not that difficult. Because the restaurant wasn’t very crowded and we were seated not too far from the hostess stand, I heard our server place the bar order (via phone). She ordered it perfectly. Any mediocre bartender would be able to make my martini.

This is what the bar sent to our table:


In what bizarro world bar is that a twist? That’s a lemon garnish, a lemon wheel, a lemon slice, for fox ache. The only thing twisted about it is the bartender’s belief that it’s a twist.

THIS is a twist:








I’m a daring gal. I had hope that the martini would still be tasty and I’d then make the lemon slice a lemon twist. I don’t know what happened. It’s possible it wasn’t Bombay Sapphire. It’s possible the vermouth was older than I am. It’s possible there was an ice shortage in Atlanta that day. What’s likely is that there was a combination of several of those things mixed with an inexperienced bartender. I did not like that martini one little bit. What I also didn’t like one little bit was the fact that we were eating at a place where it seemed a good martini would be available and it wasn't.

Our server saved the day (evening). She was attentive and friendly and excellent at her job. We explained that we’d be sharing several dishes and that we planned to take our time. We weren’t worried about letting other guests have our table so she’d have good turnover – there weren’t any other guests waiting for that table. She gave us her honest opinion about the choices on the menu and she patiently answered my questions about how the steak was prepared. She said she’d make sure only dry spices were used on my steak (no butter) and she kept her word. She checked on us from time to time and placed the orders for our meal in time with our pace. When she brought out our salad (one of our shared dishes), she noted that the dressing was sparse for a reason.

She said, “When you ordered your steak ‘dry’ and the butter and sour cream on the side, I thought you’d probably want less dressing on your salad, too. I’ll be happy to go get more for you if you’d like.”

Damn. That’s attentive. That’s good service. It’s just one small example of the quality of service we received most of that evening from her. We ended up asking her why she wasn’t working at a five star restaurant because she certainly understood that whole “taking care of the customer” concept. Her explanation was a good one. She’d worked there for years, the other staff was like family to her, and they accommodated her nursing school schedule. Plus, she didn’t care for the strict formality of the higher-end dining places and she liked to feel free to let some of her joyous spirit show rather than always speaking softly and in well-modulated tones.

I neglected to take pictures of most of the courses but will update this post later with pictures of the stuffed cookies we had as one of our desserts – along with a description of them. I dream of these cookies.

~edit~
Stuffed cookies - one of each. Shortbread stuffed with raspberry; chocolate stuffed with peanut butter; chocolate chip stuffed with chocolate truffle; chocolate stuffed with coconut. These were amazing and delicious.



I Paid For That? Gladly.

The Tip of the Iceberg

Have you been to Slashfood? Go, you'll have a nice time! I was reading an article, "Don't Dishrespect Me" today about how women don't seem to get the same level of service and/or respect that men do in restaurants. The general consensus seems to be that women don't tip as generously as men.


I've blogged about tipping inHere's a Tip for You but the Slashfood article made me wonder if my quest for excellent service at new places is doomed. Am I only going to get great service if the staff thinks the fellow I'm with is footing the bill?

If the majority of restaurant workers think that the majority of women diners are going to short them on the tip and hang out all night eating and drinking very little, then will I forever be doomed to craptacular service? I feel my optimism taking another thrashing. Is the reason I've had such seemingly bad luck simply because I'm female? This can't be. Tell me it isn't so.

What’s Your Beef?

Beef. According to the Cattlemen's Beef Board and National Cattlemen's Beef Association, it’s what’s for dinner and I agree with them on a regular basis. I love beef. I also love butter. Even with the high fat, I love the creamy deliciousness of butter. I do not, however, love beef and butter together.

As I mentioned in Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday, I should know better. Unless I order it specifically without, my steak will arrive swimming in a sea of faux butter. Even I, naïve as I am, don’t think that it’s real butter. I understand. I get it. They’re always going to dump butter on my steak. So, this post will be the last time you’ll see my butter rant unless I’ve ordered it specifically without it. Maybe by writing about it instead of just whining about it, I’ll learn to request my beef minus the butter. I hope so.

We recently went away for the weekend and found ourselves craving cow flesh for dinner. We stopped at the Lone Star Steakhouse in Tuscaloosa, AL. Again, we hit a casual dining place for all the right reasons – reasonable prices, decent service, clean surroundings and consistent (we hoped) food quality. THUD! BANG! THWACK! Don’t mind the noise, it’s just my optimism taking another beating.

Am I so wrong? Am I so mistaken in my expectations about casual dining? Is it foolish of me to expect decent food at a decent price in a timely manner in a moderately pleasant environment?

Our orders were simple: filets (medium-rare and medium), potatoes (butter and sour cream on the side), salads (no onion, dressing on the side), and unsweetened tea.

It seems an uncomplicated order for a steak house, does it not? They were not at all busy. We’d had a late breakfast and this was an early dinner. It was before 5 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon and the staff seemed more than adequate.


The salads were disappointing. This picture doesn’t do them justice. I’d like to know if the salads come pre-cut and bagged or if most restaurants prepare them in their kitchens. Even if they come bagged, isn’t the nasty, browned core (1) pretty darned obvious? Ick. And the crusty brown stuff (2) on the purple cabbage? No one noticed that? That the server spilled dressing on the table and didn’t notice was disappointing but there were several dishes so maybe it wasn’t obvious.

The rest of the food arrived promptly. The drinks stayed empty only a short time. DO did have to re-request his butter and sour cream. The steaks? They were cooked properly but in need of rescue from Lake Faux Butter. Need proof? Ick.


We were polite and friendly with our server who seemed to have very little time for us, despite the limited customers. I think we might have been her only table. Before we’d finished our meal, she arrived with the check.

We did decide to have dessert so we placed that order. With the other dishes gone, the state of the table was obvious. This is casual dining, so we didn’t expect someone to come out and scrape the breadcrumbs carefully off the tablecloth. However, since the table was dirty, I kind of expected that she’d wipe down the table before bringing our dessert. THUD! BANG! THWACK!

The evidence?
I’ve wonder if maybe I’m too picky. I don’t think so but I’m willing to entertain the thought. All I expected was reasonable prices, decent service, clean surroundings and consistent food quality. I got a reasonable price, so-so service, not-so-clean surroundings and a salad that was lacking. I’ve had better experiences with clown’s mouth dining.

I can't believe I Paid For That.

Statement of Purpose

On my other blog - Wordy Bitch - I found that a frequent topic for me was service. Whether I was raving about great service or ranting about a lack of it, it seems service is something about which I have rather strong feelings.

At Wordy Bitch, I’ve written about an excellent dining experience I had at Tallula (twice) and my pedicurist. I’ve ranted about bank disservice, my Crapsler experience dealing with maintenance on my Chrysler, and hospitals. I’ve stated my case about tipping, although not in detail and plan to do that here.