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.

Preview of Coming Attractions

Coming soon to a blog near you....



LyingHorn Steakhouse
The quest for a butter-free steak continues.

There's Something Fishy About This Place!
Don't judge a book by its cover.

and

It Was the Grille of the Moment
And another moment and another moment and still another moment! How good could it get? Tune in and find out!

Little Do They Know It

It's the little things, really. When someone in a customer service job does something not explicitly required for their job, it makes a difference. Whether it's remembering your name or how you like your water (no ice, please) or paying attention to what you ordered and customizing your service to reflect that, the little things make a HUGE difference.

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.”

From Let's Do The Twist


I was thinking about one of those little things today. My job frequently requires me to go to my customer's office. My customer's office is located behind concrete barricades and accessing more than the lobby requires a moderately lengthy sign-in process enforced by people with guns.

More often than not, I'm in a huge hurry and am dashing across the parking lot hoping there's not a long line of people experiencing the moderately lengthy sign-in process enforced by people with guns. The people with guns who authorize my access deal with rude people all day long. I've seen it. Many of them are pissed about how long it takes; they're outraged that they can't bring their cellphones in the building; and so on. I imagine the people with guns feel much like boarding gate personnel when a flight's been delayed only they must greater self-control.

Um. I'm rambling, aren't I?

I've made it a point to be pleasant and friendly to these people with guns and not just because they're people with guns. I like being nice, usually. I smile. I ask about their day, weekend, plans for the holiday, etc. I don't just ask, I care about the answers.

It's had a remarkable and unexpected result.

The people with guns see me coming as I hustle* in from the parking lot. When I approach the counter, the people with guns have begun saying, "Hi, Ms. Random Consumer! I have your badge right here, if you'll just sign the form." This makes my day much more pleasant.

I like people with guns and good attitudes.



*Not the dance from the 70s characterized by the wearing of polyester and gold chains.

Focusing on Your Target Audience

When I walk into Walmart, I can feel my blood pressure rising. Target isn’t much better; however, it is the lesser of the two evils.

Usually.

Not today.

I forgot my salad dressing for my lunch. I’ve been out of Advil Cold & Sinus for several days and that’s not good here in Sinus/Allergy Country. The Q-Tip jar was getting low. It had shaped up to be a one-stop shopping kind of morning. Target is very close to my office so I decided that instead of my morning break stroll around the building, I’d go kill a couple birds with one stone.

~ Tangent-y Interlude ~
Sinus pain can not be alleviated with regular headache medications. Being without any sinus medication makes me very nervous. The substance that works on my sinus pain also happens to be a favorite ingredient of meth cookers. The alternative (non-meth-making) ingredient the drug companies have developed doesn’t work as well for me. Advil Cold & Sinus, my personal sinus drug of choice, must be purchased from the pharmacist at the pharmacy counter. I have to present my identification and sign a logbook every time I purchase my sinus meds. I am not allowed to purchase more than two boxes at a time. This greatly irritates me but this is not the place for that rant.
~ End of Tangent-y Interlude ~

I timed my arrival at Target so that I’d get there after the pharmacy opened. The pharmacy is supposed to open at 9 a.m. I arrived at 9:20ish. The big, garage door gate was still down at the pharmacy area so I took my time selecting my other purchases.

I stood in front of the cotton swab display area. I looked, derisively, at the Target brand. I would not be suckered into that one again. I contemplated getting the 500-pack but for just a quarter more, I could get the 625-pack. I looked at the 700-pack. I thought about it. I didn’t want to do math in my head to figure out the price per Q-Tip in each of the different quantity boxes. I put 625 Q-Tips in my cart and went to the grocery area.

I stood in front of the oils and vinegars for quite a while. I could see the pharmacy area and it was still locked up tight. I had an internal debate about the merits of extra virgin vs. virgin olive oil. Pharmacy still closed. I admired the pretty bottles of flavored oils but since I don’t have a corkscrew at the office (although that’s a fantastic idea), I passed on them. No pharmacist. Garage door still down. I looked at the balsamic vinegars and their various ages and wondered if my palate would know the difference. I looked at the rice wine vinegars. Still closed. I looked at the red wine vinegars. I looked at the gourmet salad vinegars. Nope, not open.

I spotted a Target employee, Mr. Scruffy McStockerman. I asked him, gesturing toward the sign that showed the pharmacy hours, if the pharmacy was going to open. He looked at his watch. I looked at my watch. It was 9:25 and we agreed that the pharmacy should be open. He said he’d go find out what was going on and would be right back. I stayed in the general area because my buddy, Scruffy, was going to find out why the pharmacy wasn’t open and be right back.

He wasn’t.

I paced. I helped a little old lady in a motorized shopping cart because I couldn’t bear to see her crash into another end cap. I looked at the hair accessories. I reached for a headband. I pulled my hand back because, while I like the look of headbands, I can’t wear them. They hurt my head. The pharmacy gate stayed down.

Passing up my morning break walk for a short errand was turning into an exercise in frustration. That kind of exercise doesn’t earn any Activity Points. I decided I needed to get back to work. As I approached the front of the store, I saw my pal, Scruffy. Scruffy saw me. He was coming from the deli area where he’d purchased his morning snack. Scruffy looked embarrassed.

“Pharmacy?” I asked, with a slightly raised eyebrow.

Okay, actually, it was both eyebrows. I can’t do the one eyebrow thing no matter how hard I try. So, instead of looking all imperious and such, I just look really, really alert. I injected as much bitchiness as I could into my one word question.

“Oh, um, yeah. Well, um, the pharmacist just got here.”

Scruffy looked like he wanted to get away. I let him go.

I waited a few minutes more because, surely, the pharmacist would rush to open the gate since he was more than 30 minutes late, right? Right? Wrong.

I gave up. Dejected, I pushed my cart with the 625 Q-Tips and the extra virgin olive oil and the red wine vinegar to the cashier. When the cashier asked me if I found everything I needed, I was going to let her know (nicely, of course, because it’s not her fault) that I was unhappy about the pharmacy thing.

A young man was stocking the drink cooler by the register. He was very pleasant. Apparently, the cashier thought so, too. She stopped flirting with him long enough to give me my total. That’s it. There was no, “Hi, how are you?” “Did you find everything?” “Thank you for shopping at Target.” Nothing. Just my total. The self-checkout computers are friendlier. Sure, you have to read the screen but I know, deep down in my heart, that those computers are happy I’m a customer.

I Paid For That trip to Target but I’m not happy about it.

It Pains Me to Say This…

As I mentioned in my last entry, I’ve had some trouble with my back. My wonderful general practitioner, Dr. Patrick O’Neill, took great care of me. Unfortunately, the spine specialist/surgeon he referred me to was not so great or wonderful.

Dr. Larry Parker, from The Orthopaedic Center’s (TOC) Spine Center, was a disappointment. Since the MRIs had shown I had torn disks in my lower back and a narrowing of the spinal column in my upper back, Dr. O’Neill requested an urgent appointment with Dr. Parker. I was told to bring the MRI films and reports with me to my appointment.

The staff at TOC’s Spine Center impressed me. They were friendly and efficient. Additionally, Dr. Parker’s aide, David, was personable and helpful. While I didn’t catch his name, the physician’s assistant also seemed quite competent. In the waiting room, I filled out the required paperwork, including a form and diagram where I was to write down all of my symptoms and identify their location on an outline drawing of a body. When I was called back, x-rays were taken of my neck and back.

Dr. Parker was in the exam room with me for less than 3 minutes. He glanced at the films and told me I didn’t need surgery at this time. He said he was going to have me go to physical therapy and would see me in two months. He explained nothing and was about to leave so I asked about the torn disks. He acknowledged that I had tears. I asked about the numbness and burning in my arms. He told me that "people do seem concerned when they lose feeling in their extremities" but offered no other explanation. Why, yes, Dr. Parker, I can see why people would be concerned about their hands going completely numb! He offered to prescribe more pain medication. Since my family doctor had already provided a prescription, I declined. I asked what I should or should not do. He said I should let pain be my guide which is not much help because just about everything hurts. If I’d not been in so much pain, I’d have been a smart ass and asked if I should try levitation because everything else was pretty damned painful. Dr. Parker said I’d strained the muscles in my back. This made little sense to me since I was not doing anything strenuous when my back “popped” but when I started to ask him about that, he interrupted me and said he was going to let me change back into my street clothes – implying he’d be back. He did not return.

It seems that no one read the forms I was required to complete. The information I’d verbally provided to the assistant wasn’t reviewed by Dr. Parker, either. Dr. Parker is a surgeon and it seems once he determined I didn’t need immediate surgery, he had no time for me. I understand he’s busy and I was worked in but I left his office not knowing any more than I did going in. I didn’t know if I should continue using the back brace, ice or TENS unit. I didn’t know if I should return to the chiropractor. I didn’t know what, if any, symptoms should cause me to return to the doctor. I wanted to ask, “Should I expect to be in this intense pain for the next 8 weeks or will it get better? Do tears heal by themselves? How long does it take? Are the pain and burning and numbness in my hands and arms something I just need to get used to? Will I always have shooting pains in my legs and hips? Are there restrictions on how much I can or should lift while my back is healing?”

I didn’t get the chance to ask any of those questions. I expected more from this well-regarded specialist.

I’m more than a little bit peeved that I pay a pretty penny for my insurance premiums and co-pays. I’m not at all happy that I Paid For That.

*Photo is Courtesy of the National Library of Medicine

Doctor, Doctor, Gimme the News...

I love my family doctor. I love him, his wife (the office manager/head nurse), and the entire staff at his office. Why do I love him? So many reasons! I love his accent. He sounds like he just arrived from Ireland. He’s straightforward. Very straightforward. He is direct and clear without having that obnoxious, condescending, superiority complex that some other doctors have. He is respectful of his patients’ time. All in all, he provides excellent service and that’s why I’m writing about it here.

When I go to Dr. Patrick O’Neill’s office, I am seen promptly. I have never waited more than five minutes in his waiting room. That’s nearly unbelievable to me. A five minute wait at a doctor’s office? I’ve never had a doctor like that. Part of it, I’m sure, has to do with the signs posted informing patients that refills and such need to be requested during your office visit with an explanation that time spent calling in prescriptions takes away from other patients’ time.

The staff who handle the preliminary stuff (weight, temp, symptoms, etc.) are quick yet thorough. They’re friendly. They’re not too friendly. Too friendly medical technicians kind of give me the creeps.

When Dr. O’Neill comes in, he’s already read the chart. He asks questions, gives his thoughts, orders any necessary tests, asks if you have questions and is gone. Office visits are quick. Normally, this would bother me. I’d feel like the doctor didn’t care or didn’t have time for me. Feeling like you’re a nuisance to your doctor is not going to build any trust. I go in with a list. If there’s anything I need to discuss with him, I mention it when he walks in the door. He sits down and takes the time to talk. I love that. He doesn’t waste mine or his time when it’s not necessary. He has all the time in the world when it is.

The past few weeks have been difficult. I’d been reading email on Father’s Day when I felt a “pop” in my back. I wasn’t even moving when it happened, let alone stretching, twisting, or lifting. I was in agony. Not knowing what was wrong, I went to a highly recommended local chiropractor. Most of what she did was helpful and eased my pain. However, after my second visit with her, I was in so much pain I was crying. This is unusual for me as I have a very high pain tolerance. It was around 6 p.m. so my doctor was closed and, surprise!, the chiropractor couldn’t prescribe anything for pain. I took a chance and called Dr. O’Neill’s office. I got his service and they said they’d pass the message to him. He called back with in minutes. When he heard what happened, he immediately called in a few necessary prescriptions and told me to come in the next morning. It wasn’t a problem. As much as he respects time, he didn’t seem to mind my interrupting his time. Sure, he’s a doctor and being “on call” for your patients is part of the gig but he’s also a human. I get miffed when I get called in when I’m off work.

Pain meds, anti-inflammatory meds, and steroids were the plan along with rest and a warning. Now, this warning wasn’t clear to me at first. I think we expect certain words from certain people. Perhaps it’s wrong to generalize but I’d never expect a nun or my grandmother to use foul language. I don’t expect toddlers to use multi-syllabic words. I don’t expect multi-syllabic words from my ex-husband, either, but that’s just rude and I probably shouldn’t have “said” it. I wouldn’t expect slang from my high school English teacher. So, when my wonderful doctor with his strong Irish accent gave me this warning, my brain failed to understand what he said at first. I had to ask him to repeat himself. You must, while reading this warning, do it with a heavy brogue. Okay, ready?

“If ya pee your pants or crap yourself, call me right away! That’s a surgical emergency!”

“Crap yourself” is not a phrase I ever expected to hear from my doctor and I got to hear it twice. I was stunned into silence. Those of you who know me in the world outside of blogging are shocked by this. I know! I was, too! I am rarely speechless. The speechlessness lasted until I was outside in the truck. There, I giggled and giggled and giggled. I nearly wet my pants. Hey, I’m “of a certain age,” you know. Stuff like that happens. I did not crap myself.

When, after several days, the pain increased, the good doctor sent me for two MRIs. Even though my insurance company has been hesitant about approving MRIs, Dr. O’Neill’s wife convinced them to approve two of them. Dr. O’Neill had my results the same day. The same day! Seems, I’d torn two disks in my lower back and have some narrowing of my spinal column in my upper back/neck. This is extremely painful. He spent the next day trying to get me in with a spine specialist/surgeon. I’ve heard from other people that it takes up to six weeks to get in with a spine doctor in this area if you aren’t already a patient. Dr. O’Neill got me in with Dr. Parker, a very highly regarded local back surgeon, the next day.

This is just one example of why I love my doctor. He cares about his patients. He provides excellent service. With my insurance premiums and office co-pays, I’m happy to pay 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.

News Break

~NEWS BREAK~
For future reference, my significant other (aka the man, the fellow, my boyfriend, my companion, my dining companion, etc.) will be called simply DO from this point forward. It’s appropriate for a number of reasons. It can mean Dear One, Darling One, Dratted One (when I’m feeling peevish), Desired One (when I’m feeling amorous), and so much more. Believe me, DO fits him. Oh, by the way, when you read this, please pronounce it as, “I’d like to DO that” and not as “D’oh, I goofed!” He’s much more a DO than a D’oh! Thanks. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.
~END NEWS BREAK~

Thai One On

I overtip. I admit it. If the service is good, my server will get at least 20%. That’s just for good service. Reasonably prompt attention, drinks refilled when they’re empty, and food delivered as ordered are all I expect. If I’ve asked for deviations from the menu and am accommodated, that bumps up the tip. If I’ve ordered a martini and it’s properly prepared and delivered in a timely manner, both the server and the bartender will be tipped. Exceptional service providers receive exceptional tips.

One of my favorite places to eat is a local Thai restaurant, Phuket. In addition to the Thai food, they also have a sushi bar. Superb food, service and atmosphere are the norm.

We have a favorite server and request seating in her area when we have dinner there. “K” knows us. She knows exactly how I like my martini and she makes sure it’s made properly. She knows the man hates onions and his food arrives without them. “K” always gets a great tip. Does she provide great service because she knows she’ll get a good tip? It’s possible but doubtful. To get the first great tip, she had to first give great service. She did; she does. “K” cares.

I recently read an article on Slashfood discussing how Japan wants to certify sushi as being authentic. I have a selfish concern. What if the authentication of sushi means that those folks who didn’t come up through the Japanese sushi ranks can’t compete? The sushi chef at Phuket is Hispanic. He wasn’t traditionally trained. I’m fairly certain he’s never even been to Japan. “T” makes the most delightful sushi. Not only is it fresh and delicious, it is art. Take a look at one of his masterpieces (and please forgive the camera phone picture). This isn’t the work of someone just showing up for work. He cares.


They care and that’s the difference. That’s what makes good service. Caring about your work, caring about your customer and having some pride in a job done well is what makes for good service. Even though we don’t sit at the sushi bar or interact personally with him, “T” cares about service. He takes pride in every piece of sushi that leaves the sushi bar. “K” cares about her customers and she takes pride in her work. It matters to her if the drink is made correctly and the food pleasing.

When I think about our last visit to Phuket, I’m quite pleased that I Paid For That.





Confession: Even though we're in our 40s, we mispronounce Phuket and giggle like pre-teens at least once every visit. Granted, we say it while on the way there or whisper it to each other but, still, we do it.

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday

I don’t expect my McMuffin to be served on fine china nor do I expect the metal dispenser next to the self-serve fountain drink station be stocked with white, linen napkins. When I place my meal order via a clown’s mouth, I expect to pay a fair price and get a level of service comparable to the paper-wrapped food I’ll be consuming. When I’m dining at a place with valet parking where reservations are necessary and screaming children unlikely, I expect a higher level of service.

I expect to get my money’s worth.

Dinners at places like 801 Franklin or Tallula are usually planned. Dinners at places like Ruby Tuesday or Longhorn or any number of mid-priced, chain restaurants are more spur-of-the-moment choices. I’ll choose them when I want something a little nicer than fast food but a little faster and less expensive than fine dining. While I don’t expect a memorable repast of culinary delights, I do expect a decent meal at a fair price and, because it’s a chain, consistency from store to store. With that standard of expectation, my fellow and I decided to stop by the Madison, AL Ruby Tuesday on Highway 72 for a quick meal before going grocery shopping.

The Ruby Tuesday website states, “Ruby Tuesday is driven by uncompromising freshness and quality, gracious hospitality and a growing list of Five-Star restaurants destined to be the envy of the casual dining business.”

In their Mission Statement, they claim their mission as quality, passion, and pride. They talk about all three but the following passage stood out to me: “Passion is people. People who love what they do and take your enjoyment personally. Passion is what to expect from the people who take your order, the people who craft your meal (and peek out from the kitchen to see your delight) and the people who are designing our comfortable, stylish Five-Star restaurants that are destinations in themselves. Everyone you meet here is happy you've come, and they're genuinely dedicated to having you visit with us frequently.”

I’ll describe our experience and let you be the judge as to whether or not they’re accomplishing their mission.

I’ll admit I’m in a rut when it comes to ordering at Ruby Tuesday. I’m watching my weight and I’ve found a meal that satisfies me and is reasonably healthy. I usually order the petite sirloin, baked potato, and steamed broccoli. A trip to the salad bar starts my meal. Several months ago, I discovered a wine on their limited but decent list and it’s become a favorite both when eating at Ruby Tuesday and at home. The Greg Norman Shiraz goes nicely with the meal and it’s offered at a fair price per glass. My companion ordered the hot buffalo tenders, a glass of unsweetened tea, and the salad bar.

I placed my order, requesting my steak be prepared medium rare, the butter and sour cream for my potato “on the side,” and I verified that the broccoli was simply steamed, not cooked in butter. I asked for a glass of water and requested that my wine be brought with my meal. My fellow’s only special request was for extra blue cheese dressing.

I’ve seen rants on other blogs about customers who special order everything and if the restaurant is extremely busy, I’ll order something simple with minimal or no modifications. Other than that, I’ll admit, I’m picky. The food is, hopefully, prepared when ordered and, even in a casual dining restaurant, I believe I should be able to ask for something to be served on the side or without butter. If it’s not possible, the server can tell me and I’ll order something else. If you think the above is picky, you should witness me ordering a martini. If I’m not able to customize my meal a little bit, I might as well be ordering from a vending machine.

We visited the salad bar and were surprised that the quality and variety seemed somewhat lacking. It wasn’t horrible but it also wasn’t what we’d come to expect from Ruby Tuesday. After we returned to our table, the server came over to let me know that the wine I’d requested was not available. I was a bit disappointed but knew they carried another decent red, the Robert Mondavi Cabernet, so I ordered it. Our meals arrived and, with them, word that the Mondavi wine was also not available. Since her order station was nearby, I asked if I could just walk over there with her, see what was available and make my choice. She agreed and we went to the touch screen. I wasn’t familiar with any of the other wines, so I just chose from the available red wines. I returned to the table.

I found my steak swimming in a sea of butter. I quickly pushed it to the edge of my plate. I’m beginning to accept that many restaurants ladle butter on their steaks without any mention of it on their menu. I don’t like it but I’m beginning to understand that I’m not going to change it, either. What I don’t understand is how a server can listen to a patron order their food with no butter or butter on the side and not mention that the other part of their meal will come doused in it. If your customer seems to be avoiding high fat or calorie foods, you may want to mention the ½ cup of butter that’s poured on the steak and offer to have it prepared minus the butter.

When the server returned to let me know that the bar staff had to go out back to get the wine (this confused me), I asked for a separate plate. Mr. Consumer ran out of tea during the wine dance and our server never seemed to notice. He did not receive his extra dressing until he asked, twice, for it. After moving my steak to a plate without a pool of butter, I cut into it. While it was medium rare, it didn’t resemble any sirloin I’d ever seen. It looked like a chopped steak that had seen better days. It didn’t taste any better than it looked and I made do with my potato and broccoli.
Ick Steak




Our server returned. She informed me that the wine I’d chosen (third try) was only available by the bottle and not by the individual glass. She was quite apologetic and assured me that they had “a really nice carbonnay” and asked if she could bring me that. While part of my mind wondered if a carbonnay was the mutant bastard child of cabernet and chardonnay, the other part of my mind formulated a response to her offer. “No, thank you,” I said, “and I know you’ve been trying really hard but I’d like to see your manager.”

When the manager arrived, I gave a quick description of our dining experience. He began to berate our server, saying that all the servers are told about the available wines and that they were changing their wine list and so on. He had many excuses and reasons for our experience. He offered to get me a glass of wine and I declined saying, “No, thank you, I’m done.” He offered to get me a new steak and I again told him that I was done. I told him that I wasn’t looking for a new steak or a glass of wine or anything else other than to inform him of our experience so he could look into it and, hopefully, make the necessary improvements. I was disappointed that he immediately went into blame mode and pointed the finger at our server. As the manager, he should have accepted responsibility for what happened at that restaurant while he was in charge. Our server seemed to be trying very hard and did not appear to have been taught anything about their wines. Granted, she was slow in refilling the tea but she was trying, in vain, to find a glass of red wine somewhere in that restaurant. In the end, the manager did not charge us anything for either of our meals. I walked over to our server and handed her a tip, thanking her for her effort.

We’ve had exceptionally good service at the Ruby Tuesday in Athens, AL and very good service at the south Madison location on Tom Thrasher Drive. As for the Highway 72 location:

I Paid For That? I don't think so.

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday.

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.