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Ripped off and pissed off

July 24th, 2006

I may not have mentioned this before, but Swedish Girl has a penchant for cheap eats. Don’t get me wrong, she loves fine dining, but she’s strangely fond of dives like IHOP. I’ve tried to put my foot down several times, but we keep finding ourselves at IHOP. The one in my old neighborhood is filled with thugs, punks, crying babies, angry waitresses, annoyed patrons, and after sitting in maple syrup for the last time, I think I’m safe from ever having to go back there. But that only means more trips to Bickford’s! Yeah for me. While in my old neighborhood yesterday, Swedish Girl had a hankering for breakfast and we found ourselves in a marginally more civilized version of IHOP.

We walked in to find the place empty, save for one table of diners, so I thought we were in good shape. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The teenage waitress, Marie, was a nightmare. From the opening bell, we were in for trouble. The glass of water she brought Swedish Girl had some black specks in it. Strike 1. I encouraged Swedish Girl to ask for another glass. Afterall, why put up with that nonsense, right? Next, she brought my sandwich without the fries that come with it. Strike 2. It took me 10 minutes to get that rectified. Then, the cranberry sauce (Cool Jesus can’t live without cranberry sauce, soy sauce, and garlic powder) was left off my hot turkey sandwich. Strike 3. That was a quick fix, but her spit might have been consealed within. Once all this was taken care of, I had to ask for my raspberry iced tea that I had ordered 25 minutes earlier. Strike 4. With each request, this girl was getting more and more exasperated. And that’s putting it kindly. Her short “okay” retorts were sufficiently vicious. “Can I get anything else for you?” No, Marie, you’ve done quite enough already.

I won’t really call this strike 5, but Marie put so much whipped cream on Swedish Girl’s strawberry pancakes, that one would have thought that Swedish Girl requested extra, extra, super duper, keep it coming whipped cream. I asked her to scoop all the excess right onto the table so Marie would have to clean it up, but she wouldn’t do it. Eventually, we finished our food, Marie’s spit and all, and got the check. By my calculations, lovely Marie overcharged us by over $5. Strike 5. Taking my life into my hands, I brought this to Marie’s attention and asked her to double-check it for me. My stupid error was to also leave the money on the table, which she grabbed, returned with our “change,” and told me she was right all along. I should have pressed further, but I backed down. I regret it still. We should have left no tip or a teeny tiny tip, since she already pocketed a sweet tip by overcharging us, but I broke down and left a borderline standard tip (a shade less than 15%, but if you factor in what she stole from us, she made out with over 40%).

We couldn’t approach the manager, because he looked to be no more than a couple of years older than Marie, in addition to looking pretty chummy with her. We knew he’d side with her. I regret not leaving a pocket change tip, but I had the opening sequence from Reservoir Dogs racing through my head, not to mention The Incident. Cool Jesus has zero luck with waitresses. Thanks for letting me rant. I’m off to Arbie’s!

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Posted in Food, Screwed

General, what be thy name?

May 1st, 2006

I was craving Chinese food all day on Saturday.  At one point, I even invented kung pao chicken pizza in my mind (the result of having less-than-satisfying pizza for lunch).  So, I wanted to take Swedish Girl to one of the better Chinese restaurants in my fair city.  At the last second, she called an audible, however, and suggested a buffet.  Since my city has a large Asian population, there also happens to be a Chinese buffet of some acclaim.  I thought it was worth checking out.  I wasn’t too hungry, so when I saw the sign reading “$4.25/pound,” I was happy. 

Perhaps I didn’t read the fine print (it was probably printed in Mandarin), but that $4.25/pound was merely a hoax.  Turns out we were charged a stiff flat rate that in no way equaled the slim pickins we had to scrape out of the nearly-empty food bins.  And someone put crab nuggets into the chicken nugget tray, which just isn’t cool.  Let’s just say the best part of the meal was the $2.00 Bud Light.  But I digress…

While eating my General Gao’s chicken, Swedish Girl asked me if it was General Gao or General Tso.  I couldn’t remember, but I thought the sign read General Gao.  I proceded to tell her of conversations I had had with Captain Larby (and others) regarding the same query.  Why do some restaurants offer General Gao’s chicken, which others cook up General Tso’s chicken?  Is it due to the difference between Chinese dialects/languages?  Is it that some regions honor their favorite general, while other regions honor a different general?  Both types of chicken taste the same, look the same, and are prepared the same.  I really must know. 

If you have the answer, drop me a reply here.  There’s a $2.00 Bud Light in it for you. 

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Posted in Food

My blood ran cold

March 28th, 2006

Setting:  Boston, Massachusetts – Back Bay to be exact – January 1996.

It was a frigid winter Saturday afternoon when Captain Larby, his girlfriend Greenhair (because the dorm shower water turned her blonde hair green), Dr. Little (our best friend next door), and I decided to venture out into the city for some lunch and shopping.  Our favorite little haunt was a cafe that I cannot bring myself to name (I’ll call it simply Cafe), wedged halfway between BU and Northeastern at the end of Newbury and Boylston.  It was a hip cafe full of health food, vegetarians, vegans, hippies, bohemians, and we felt cooler just walking through the door.

Either Dr. Little or Captain Larby got credit for finding that place and Larby was eager to share it with Greenhair.  Fast-forwarding a bit, at the end of our meal, the decision was made to put Greenhair in charge of handling the money and calculating a tip.  I don’t recall what her major was, but it was apparent that she was better equipped to handle math than two Political Science majors and a Psychology major.  Nevertheless, we were all actively involved in making sure we left the waitress a good tip.  Afterall, we dug that place and wanted to return many times.  So, Greenhair left somewhere in the vicinity of 18% to 22%, we bundled up for the freezing temps outside, and were about to cross Mass Ave for Newbury Street when the unspeakable happened.

Our waitress, who had not even put on a coat, came running outside, yelling, “Hey!  Hey!  Hey you!”  We all turned around and my first thought was that one of us left something inside.  Dr. Little, bringing up the rear, had the misfortune of being closest to her, so she grabbed his hand, put some coins and a couple of $1 bills in it, and hissed, “Here, you take it!  It’s not even 10%!  You obviously need it more than me!”  After taking great pleasure in reciting her lines with great vengeance and furious anger, she ran back into the Cafe. 

Dr. Little stood there, arm outstretched, frozen.  It was as if the waitress had placed tarantulas in his hand and he was afraid to move a muscle.  We all stood there.  It was 18 degrees outside, but we were burning up with embarrassment.  I don’t know how much time passed before someone spoke up, but it felt like a long, long time.

Greenhair was positive that she had left an above-average tip and we were all sure that we had given her ample tip money.  The only explanation was that the waitress mixed us up with another table.  That is the only logical scenario.  When we returned to our dorm that night, Dr. Little deposited the two $1 bills and assorted coins on a shelf in Captain Larby’s and my room.  It was January.  That money remained there until May or June when we decided to give it to our favorite bum, Jazz Man.  It was blood money and we felt that even if we used it to buy a bottle of water, that we would choke on it and die. 

None of us ever went to the Cafe after that.  Until, that is, I revisited the Cafe two years later.  That was a pseudo-date with the immortal Jamm Murph, who I never saw again after that day. (I need a moment…)

What makes me bring all this up and relive this painful memory?  Swedish Girl and I rented Waiting (starring Ryan Reynolds, Justin Long, David Koechner, Anna Farris) over the weekend.  In that underrated, and actually entertaining, film, is a scene where a redneck patron leaves a pathetically small tip.  The waiter runs after him, placing the money in his hand, and recites almost the exact same words that the Cafe waitress screeched at us.  Is there a script that waiters and waitresses are given that covers them in the case of all sorts of restaurant incidents?  I had to pause the movie, catch my breath, and tell Swedish Girl the story of the Cafe.

In Waiting, the patron complains to the manager that he was insulted and degraded by the waiter.  But it didn’t even dawn on four naive college freshman that we could have complained to the Cafe manager.  Instead, we tucked our tails between our legs, slinked away, and whenever we happened to have to cross the Cafe, we looked away and hurried our stride as if we were passing the Boo Radley house. 

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Posted in Bizarre, Boston, Food, Life

Current Cravings

March 8th, 2006

I’m totally into hummus right now.  I never really cared for it, but then again, I never really gave it much of a shot.  That was until Swedish Girl mentioned a few weeks ago that she was in the mood for tabouleh.  So, the next time I went grocery shopping, I picked up some tabouleh.  But I figured I’d go all out and get some hummus and pita chips as well.  The tabouleh still sits in my refrigerator unopened, yet I’ve already gone through three or four containers of hummus.  I can hardly get enough of it.  Why do they make such small containers and why are the bags of pita chips so undersized?  I need the family size.   

I’ve even gone so far as to make this my “meal.”  I tend to eat a relatively big lunch later in the afternoon, so I don’t usually need a regular supper in the evening.  So, a few times I’ve had hummus, pita chips, and broccoli or carrots.  This must be “smart food,” because I have been on an unbelievable roll while watching Jeopardy!  I’m even answering Final Jeopardy! questions that the three contestants can’t answer.  Could it be that my current obsession for hummus will lead me to win tens of thousands of dollars on Jeopardy!…?  Let’s just say it’s under consideration.

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Posted in Food