kerewin's whine cellar

Would You Like Parmesan With That?

So when we were in Spokane we ate at one of those faux-Italian restaurants, like Macaroni Grill. No reservations allowed, huge wait, paper and crayons on each table so that the server can write his or her name there, just so's you don't forget. Being a former server, I tend to be annoyed by such a thing. I never gave my name out, unless it was requested. It falls into that whole concept of, "waiter as actor."

I do happen to like Tomato Street (we aren't talking fine dining here, I mean, this IS Spokane after all). They have this disgustingly good greasy, garlic bread that probably has about 400 calories a slice. Everyone is always friendly and while it is always too busy and too loud and full of way too many children, my family tends to have a nice time while we are there. So it was the parents, sister and me. We sit down, get our water, and start messing with the crayons. H-star starts drawing this huge oblong circle on the edge of the table. Then she draws a line through it, the universal symbol for, "don't." I was busy trying to figure out what she wanted me to stop doing so I just stared at it. Finally I said, "Don't what?"

Then she started writing in the circle. She slowly wrote out, N-A-M-E so that it was facing anyone who approached the table. My parents looked at us like we were lunatics when we busted up laughing. I had completely forgotten that who knows how long ago I had told her how much I loathed the whole name thing. So our poor waiter walks on up to the table, crayon in hand and as he leans in to write his name, he kinda stops and looks at us with a puzzled expression.

"You...you don't want to know my name?"

The poor thing, he looked so crushed. Of course, when it came down to ordering you could tell the Seattle apart from the Spokane (sorry Mom and Dad). H-star, who just had a baby, was going more healthy which pretty much left her with just minestrone soup. I was craving some sauteéd spinach with my entreé and tried to order some on the side. "Are you sure you just want it on the side? It is kinda small," he-who-shall-remain-nameless said.

"Well maybe I should get two sides put together. How much would it cost?"

"A side of vegetables is 99 cents." [this is not even the most jaw-dropping event] Was he worried I couldn't afford it?

So they bring the salads out and offer pepper and parmesan. That's a nice touch for SpoCompton, I was impressed, but decided to hold off. "No thank you." During dinner my sister, father, and I were in this really surreal state of mind because my Mother had told my father the night before that she wanted a divorce. Yet here we were, all sitting at a restaurant, talking and acting like NOTHING WAS WRONG. I could see times when my Dad's head did one of those strange cartoon things (the kind where if you typed out the noise that it makes it would be stupid - like wubba-wubba-wubba). My Mom seemed not to notice that anything was out of the ordinary, which was extra freaky.

So they bring out the entreés and say, "Would anyone like any pepper or parmesan with that?" Since my dish is a baked pasta I decide that would be a good thing. Quick as a flash the food runner whips a shaker out of his apron and presents me with...wait for it...a shaker filled with the kind of parmesan you can find on the table of every pizza joint in the country. If I had asked for pepper would they have just handed me a shaker filled with the pre-ground stuff? I mean, how bizarre is that?

I got a little flak from Dad about the whole No-Name event and the hard time I gave our poor server about my side of sauteéd spinach (which was the best part of the meal). So to make it up to the waiter, I decided to compile a list for all of the employees' amusement later on. I mean, when you are waiting in the lobby you see a bunch of drawings from previous guests up on the walls. Therefore, they might look at the paper on the table before they throw it away.

Waiter Truisms

• If they know your name, they'll (over) use it
• All women at a table = separate checks, all water and everything on
  the side.
• Family friendly restaurants are the best form of birth control, EVER
• No one wants to wait on the table of Germans, Brits, or Canadians
• People always forget their boxed up food
• When a table says "you are the best server EVER," that *is* the tip
• When you are waiting for the last entreé to come up, the kitchen always says "just two more minutes"
• People always ask for more of that 'good' bread (because if they didn't ask you would likely bring them the crappy, day-old bread).

I hope it brightened their day. That and the HUGE tip we left. Speaking of tips, if you want more fun restaurant bravado, check out my newest online addiction.

Posted by kerewin at June 14, 2005 08:20 PM