I’ll be your server—for eternity

Usually the complaint diners voice is that they never see their server. I recently went to an upscale sushi restaurant in—of all places—Hammond, La., where the six of us were quickly ushered to a booth when they heard us debate about whether to try another restaurant since the wait was more than an hour. That’s where the quickness stopped, however.

The server, a college student, was pleasant, but clueless. She took our drink order and then brought us our drinks one at a time. My daughter’s friend Jessica told her if they had Abita’s Purple Haze, she’d like a beer, otherwise she’d take the cabernet. The server came back to report that they didn’t have the beer. “I’ll take the cabernet, then,” Jessica said, “and water, please.” She got the water after another request, but it took two more appeals to get the wine. No one at our table was going to complain of a hangover the next morning.

The real appetizer came after we had polished off our individual appetizers—delivered one at a time—and my salad was a no show. I told the server not to bother with it. “I’m sure it’s ready,” she said, delivering it 10 minutes later. And, because it was served to me, I ate it—but I was resentful.

The sushi arrived at the end of the meal, and trust me, sushi is no dessert.

Actually, what the meal taught me was that if you dine slowly and your food has time to digest between courses, you really can get away with ordering significantly less food. This is a secret the restaurant community should not want the general public privy to. Right now the National Restaurant Association is claiming the industry has more than $500 billion in sales. Think about what would happen to those sales if diners were limited to one drink with dinner and could fill up on an appetizer each.

In case you’re wondering, we were a kind table. We didn’t get visibly upset or roll our eyes, at least when she could see us. Both my daughter and her friend were servers for a short time, and both admitted to being less than stellar at the task. I, too, was a horrible server in college—I got my biggest tips when I burned myself by spilling coffee down my legs, a performance I was smart enough not to repeat too often—and, yet, I would wager that even I am better suited for the job than this girl.

To make the evening even more memorable, I was also stuck with the check. I left a 15 percent tip, which for me, is a sign of displeasure with the service. I would never leave less than 15 percent, because I am a supporter of the industry, plus my college roommate’s boyfriend told us he once chased a couple dining at one of his tables into the parking lot to return the dollar they had left as a tip. “You obviously need this more than I do,” he hissed at them, as he tossed the single bill in their faces. I can put up with crummy service, but I don’t want a second helping of guilt on the side.


Food on the go

I’ve always felt guilty that my children crave fast food from their childhood, not their mother’s cooking. My youngest recently was on a business trip to Las Vegas and could have had a nice meal in a nice restaurant—something Vegas is becoming known for, along with all that tawdriness. But after walking two hours toward the strip to shop, she took a cab back to her hotel so she could go through the drive-thru at Roberto’s for rolled tacos. I’m sure her boss will appreciate the $5.99 dinner on her expense report. The taxi driver was the real loser, because Becca didn’t have enough cash with her to offer to pay for his meal and the fare.

Actually for Becca, unconventional drive-thru experiences aren’t a stretch. She went to school in Louisiana where drive-thru Daiquiri shops flourish on every corner. Apparently, if the bartender doesn’t put the straw in the 24-ounce Styrofoam cup before handing it out the window, it’s not considered aiding and abetting drinking while driving.


Back home dining

I accidentally discovered a great way to return to a dining mecca two days in a row—leave your credit card behind the first evening.

My husband and I dined at the Loring Pasta Bar after a concert at The Varsity Theater, and I must have been distracted when I paid the bill, because I left with my receipt, but not my ATM card. I was a little worried the next morning when I discovered my loss, because our server the evening before wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a sleeveless undershirt. And even though I thought he could use a nice shirt, I didn’t want to be the one to buy it for him.

Because the Loring was hosting a wedding the next day, I had to wait until after 5:30 to pick up my card (and I was just kidding about the server, I knew he wasn’t out shopping with my card). And, as long as we had to be there, we might as well eat, right?

My husband, Ed, and I were going to try the Chinese restaurant next door to the Varsity, but the line was out the door and it was a chilly evening. Ed’s politically incorrect assumption is that if a lot of Asians eat at a Chinese restaurant that means it must be authentic. We went across the street to have a drink at The Library, where once again the server—this time a woman—could have used a shirt. I kept my credit card tucked safely in my purse.

When we left after eating a huge bowl of chips and three dips, we saw that the line at Shuang Cheng was gone. I wish I had read the reviews before we ordered because we were overwhelmed by the sheer number of items on the menu and didn’t pick anything out of the ordinary. And, since it’s received multiple rave reviews from credible sources, I think it deserves a second visit. I should have left my card behind.