It was almost painful. A late arrival to my hotel near Boston a couple of evenings ago, I searched a bit for a chain “restaurant” such as Friendly’s for fuel. I couldn’t drink because I had a very important presentation to perform the next morning, and even a little alcohol might have jeopardized my performance. When I can’t drink, I don’t like fine food; it reminds me too much of wine.
The only thing I could find was a fashionable neighborhood spot named something like Lax. I was so disconsolate at having to eat dry among others enjoying wine that I didn’t even look carefully at the name of the place.
I was going to order a hamburger, but my personal Jiminy Cricket, an adumbration of my wife, sat gently on my shoulder. I requested some kind of broiled chicken breast with chutney, wild rice and asparagus.
My waitress was uncommonly comely, young, sexy, and playfully friendly. I couldn’t help ruminate about how great it would have been to ask her to bring me a glass of wine, and then another; but like an old fart, I asked for soda water with no lime and said I would order the food right away.
The chicken came out in a nice presentation on a hot plate but was cooked to a hard dryness; which, upon attempting to cut, shredded. My only consolation, I thought, was that I could nibble around the edges to keep from starving, leave most of the disappointment on my plate, and potentially lose a pound.
Then I caught the inevitable descending upon me: the pretty waitress sashaying her way past tables to ask me if everything was okay, the euphemism for asking whether a dinner is actually good, which would be riskier.
What should I say? I thought. The best part of the restaurant experience was the interaction with her, which I would surely dampen if I were honest; but my quest for honesty trumps my desire to be liked.
“I know this is a family restaurant, and a lot of family type people like their chicken “cooked,” and the place is doing very well, so don’t be concerned with my opinion, but if this were a fine restaurant, dry, tough, way over-cooked chicken wouldn’t pass.”
Wide eyes brought the only response back. The girl lickety split fetched the owner. He strutted up like a character in a Maxwell Parish print hunting for bear. To him, I said to relax, I was only interested in eating, which the restaurant adroitly accommodated; but if I ever were to return to dine, I would request the chicken less cooked.
The owner said chicken should be tender and moist and he would take the dinner off my bill.
I said I don’t pay for my dinners and asked him to please leave the charge. But I couldn’t help wonder what the man was thinking. He did in fact know how chicken “should” be cooked, but I am almost certain that his clientele probably liked it as it had come out. I wonder how many owners of restaurants are forced into prostitution?
The waitress came back as nice and playful as before when she asked me if I wanted dessert. No, I said; that’s how I keep the belly off at my age. I left her a big tip, all the money I would have spent if I had been fortunate enough to have dined.
