A Tip for Great Service

I've recently noticed a lot of articles arguing that the U.S. should eliminate tipping in restaurants and replace it with service charges or higher prices. While I mostly agree with the premise, I think most of the arguments against tipping are wrong. For instance, one common argument is that tipping does not result in better service because you tip after the meal/service. Well if you really want good service:

Many years ago, an uncle told me about his trips to Las Vegas and how to live like a big shot. He would go sit at the hotel pool and order a drink. When the server brought the drink, he would hand her/him an extra $20 and say, "Make sure that glass is never empty." You know who got great service? My uncle.

In my youth, I spent one summer working at a convention center setting up rooms/stages/banquet halls/dance floors for various meetings, receptions and conventions. Despite the manual labor, most of the time we sat around in the big easy executive chairs while smoking and running away to hide when the bosses came around. One week, a large appliance convention rolled into town. We met the head guy for the convention, and he pointed out how he wanted the room set-up.

Just as I started to pretend we had another room to go set up, he pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and handed $20 each to my co-worker and myself. "I trust you'll be around," he said.

You know who got great service? That appliance convention.

We pretty much stayed by that guy's side all week and even helped unload two trucks full of dishwashers, washers and dryers, and stoves. By the end of the convention, we had pulled in an extra $100 each in tips which was $100 more in tips than I made all summer. (At this time I'd like to apologize to the family reunion that didn't have enough chairs that week. Seems like we were too busy with the appliance convention to help you out.)

As many long-time readers may recall, St. Pauli Girl and I owned a restaurant for six years. One day I studied our liquor invoices and wondered why we had ordered a bottle of Glenlivet 18 year old Scotch as we already had plenty including the 12 year old Glenlivet. I asked our bartender who said, "Oh yeah, someone called and requested it. Said he would come here more often if we had it. Don't worry, you're going to love this guy."

Later that night, this man (we'll call him Felix), came in with a rather loud, rowdy party of six. When they got to the table, he handed the hostess $20 then went to the bar, ordered a Glenlivet (18 year old) and tipped the bartender $20. You know who got great service? Felix and everyone he ever came in with.

Felix came in almost weekly always with four to eight people. When he walked in the door, the entire front of house staff would practically mob him to say hello, hug him and hopefully get a little cash. Felix knew everyone's name and anyone new on the staff made it a point to stop by his table and introduce himself/herself.

Felix happened to be a very picky eater. In fact, Felix didn't really order from the menu. He ordered one of our pasta dishes with sauce we used on another dish and "absolutely no cheese! If cheese is anywhere on the table, I'll go crazy and never come in here again."

You know who gets to special order their own entrees that aren't on the menu? Felix and anyone else who throws out cash like rice at a wedding.

I never really came to love Felix as our bartender had suggested I would. Probably because he didn't tip me although one of his friends did buy my Guinness necktie from me for $50. But he always made the place more lively, and the staff loved him.

So even if the U.S. does totally get rid of tipping someday, we'll never truly really get rid of tipping because some people just like living large. And it's no different than politics. You know who gets great service from an elected official? The people that gave the politician a lot of money before the politician won the election.

The Sauce Must Have Been Good

I recently read an online discussion about restaurant dining on a newspaper website. One person wrote about a time he left a 1% tip: drinks didn't arrive until after the entrees, one entrée came out 30 minutes before the other one, the second order was completely wrong although the server insisted other wise and they had to wait an hour for their check. Sure that may justify no tip, but what amazed me, was how long people will actually put up with poor experiences before being pushed hard enough to fight back. If I have to wait more than five minutes to order a drink after I'm seated, I start muttering, "who do I have to kill to get a drink in this place?"
 

That story reminded me of an incident that happend in our restaurant:

It took a good year and a half before I finally decided that our restaurant was going to make it. I would go home after a successful day then come in the next day wondering if any customers would show up. During this time, as guests were leaving, they frequently asked if I was the owner. I would begrudgingly answer affirmatively while bracing myself for a slap in the face, a kick to the groin, or a challenge to a duel, or at least a firm tongue lashing. But probably 95% of the time, they had really nice things to say about the restaurant. 4% of the time, they might have valuable constructive criticism while the other 1% challenged me to duels. I had gotten used to feeling the love.

One Saturday night, I came in about 5:00. Only one table was occupied by a family of four in the corner. I didn't pay much attention as I went about my business getting ready for the dinner rush. As they got up to leave, I happened to be standing near the door. The father of the family asked if I was the owner. I smiled brightly and almost held out my hand ready to be kissed.

"This restaurant is a disgrace," he started. "I've never had a worse meal in my life. The food was cold and way too expensive. My wife's chicken was raw!"

Like a punching bag hanging from the ceiling I kept swinging back for more. Finally, I managed to jump in and tried to solve the problem. "I'm very sorry to hear that. Did you talk to the server and have the chicken replaced?"

"No, we didn't."

"Well let me get you something else. I would hate for you to leave hungry."

"I wouldn't touch your food if you gave me a million dollars."

(I guessed he wouldn't be enthused about a complimentary gift certificate.)

"We don't want anything," he continued. "We just wanna get out of here so we can go tell our friends about it."

"Yeah," the wife finally chimed in. "And we're gonna put it all over facebook so our friends can tell their friends. No one's gonna come here again."

They stormed out the door as I struggled to find anything to say. I ran back to the kitchen and found the server who was one of our best.
 

"What happened? Did they say anything to you?" I asked.

"No, everything was fine. They never complained. They weren't talkative, but I had no idea there was a problem."

We went back to the table and inspected the plates. They were empty, no sign of any leftover half-eaten, much less raw chicken. I walked back to the office and sat down trying to comprehend what had happened. The best I could figure was that they were hoping to get salmonella poisoning for a lawsuit payday or just to prove some sort of point.

That day I realized that complainers are nothing to worry about or fear; their problems are usually easily fixed. It's the people that have a bad experience and walk out without saying a word that are the ones to worry about.

Luckily, their Facebook campaign (if they indeed waged one) didn't hurt our business. But at the time I thought, "Yes, please tell your friends that you were served raw chicken. And that you just went ahead and ate it anyways."

Dine And Dash Without the Dash

Today we have another episode of “Great Moments in Hospitality.” It turns out there is such a thing as a free lunch . . . and dinner. The following is a true story told to me by an acquaintance; only the names have been changed to protect the innocent:

Bartender Arch was working a slow afternoon shift alone in the bar at a large hotel convention center when suddenly, without advance warning, one of the conference rooms burst open, spilling fifty to sixty thirsty, hungry women into the bar. Lucky Arch: the adjoining dining room didn't open for another hour. And these women were thirsty and hungry.

Arch did the best he could taking care of the demanding women, singlehandedly taking lunch orders and mixing drinks, serving the food and then mixing more drinks, and ringing up tickets. But after a long, grueling hour and a half he thought he had everyone satisfied. There had not yet been any complaints.

As the room emptied out except for a few tables, Arch began clearing plates. As he pulled the dirty plates from a table where three well-dressed women sat, in his best Fridays/Applebees/Chili's waiter spiel, he said, “So can I interest you in some key lime pie, turtle cheesecake, or maybe just some coffee?”

“Um, we're still waiting for our lunch,” one lady said haughtily.

Arch looked down at the dirty plates in his hands that he had just removed from her table.

“Yeah, and we've been waiting forty-five minutes,” snarled another.

Dumbfounded, Arch didn't know what to do. He looked around at the now deserted dining room for clues. The bar area had been completely clean before the avalanche had descended on him; he was positive no one had sat at a dirty table. He took the pile of empty, dirty plates back to the kitchen and talked to the manager. They were both positive the ladies had been served their lunch, and indeed, a quick search produced a used, time-stamped ticket for that table showing as much.

“What should we do?” asked Arch. "They clearly already ate their lunch."

“Fire up the grill,” said the manager with a shrug.

Ten minutes later, Arch brought another round of entrees to the table and apologized for the long wait. The "starving" ladies each took a tiny nibble of food, pushed pack their chairs, and asked for to-go boxes.

Since their food sort of, took so long to get to the table, the manager comped their meal. Make that meals, with an S. And they left no tip. Why should they, for such rotten service?

This is like breaking into a grocery store, stealing a hundred pounds of beef, then walking past the night guard and asking him to validate your parking stub. And then pointing to the beef and saying, “Oh and could you supersize this?”

What's really amazing is that this was an entire team of women pulling it off. It's one thing for a lone sociopath to attempt such blatant theft with a straight face, but how do you get three people to do it? I would argue that it takes a lot of training to accomplish such a feat.

And I suppose you have to work your way up to that level of expertise and daring. I imagine Level I begins with a first-timer being required to go into a convenience store, carry a magazine to the checkout counter, then grab a pack of cigarettes and stuff it in her purse while the clerk is busy ringing it up. Then the clerk says, “Oh wait, that's five dollars for the cigarettes.”

“What cigarettes?” the thief-in-training replies.

“The ones you put in your purse.”

“I ain't got no cigarettes.” Then she has to calmly light a cigarette in front of the clerk and walk out with a straight face.

From there, she can work her way up to Level II: stealing gas; preparing a meal at a grocery store salad bar and consuming it while standing at the salad bar; pouring drinks from a bar while the attendant isn't looking and then denying it. After those, perhaps she's finally ready for Level III: The Full-Service Restaurant Double Whammy Power Punch Team.

I'm not sure I have ever heard or will ever hear a more brazen story. However, the same convention is booked for the same hotel next year. We can only hope that the Level III team can top themselves. You go, girls!

America Wins the Mustard War

Growing up, four or five days a week my school lunch entree was a single slice of chopped ham between two slices of white bread slathered with yellow mustard. Even after college, I continued packing this same lunch for work almost every day except, as a wage-earner in control of my own destiny, I boldly expanded my sandwich repertoire to include two slices of chopped ham and sometimes (gasp!) cheese. I never realized lunch could be so much more, but on to my point: after eating literally thousands of boring ham sandwiches cemented with yellow mustard, I've had enough yellow mustard to last me a lifetime.

I remember the first time I had real (American) Chinese food with Chinese hot mustard. (Of course back in the 70's my mom occasionally made chop suey from a can and mixed it with ground beef, but that qualifies for Chinese food about as much as Spagettio's qualifies as Italian--but we never had hot mustard with it that version of chop suey.) Early in my career, I went with some co-workers to a Chinese restaurant where we started lunch with some eggrolls. Following everyone else's lead, I unwittingly dipped my eggroll into a generous portion of Chinese mustard. Seconds later, a volcano rolled through my sinuses and I grabbed my water to douse the flames. But what I found really amazing was that I immediately wanted more!

And so began my love affair with hot Chinese mustard and its cousin, wasabi. In fact, wasabi became the real reason I love sushi. I love the rush and the feeling of risk that maybe this time I might have taken too much... then “Ahhhhhhh!” the sweet release as it flushes out my sinuses. In much the same way that you should never eat at a barbecue restaurant tif you can't smell it from a mile away--if you didn't have a runny nose when you leave a Chinese restaurant, you should cross it off your list.

Way back then, when I first came to love hot mustard, I didn't even care about the eggrolls; I just needed a vehicle for dipping into that awesome, gratifying, sinus-clearing hot stuff. You could have given me a plate of cardboard toilet paper rolls and I probably would have declared them "fantastico!" if the mustard was good.

Flash forward to the present. Because of our recent long, drawn out moving process and having to take care of two houses for a while, we spent a lot of time on the road which meant we didn't feel much like cooking. And so we have had more pizza and Chinese food delivered in the past year than in all previous years combined. This has made us experts on eggrolls and Chinese hot mustard. But after a few deliveries, I began to notice that the "mustard effect" wasn't quite what it used to be; it was taking more and more mustard to get a decent fix. Had I developed a tolerance, like a meth addict?

We switched to a different Chinese restaurant for delivery but nothing changed, the mustard didn't seem hot at all. In fact, upon close examination I realized that the mustard looked and tasted more like the yellow mustard I had eaten growing up than it did the Chinese mustard I had come to love. In desperation we bought a dry hot mustard mix from the grocery store, but this too tasted bland and heatless.

Where oh where had my hot mustard gone?

Sadly, it appears to have undergone the slow but inevitable Americanization process that many original foods and flavors fall victim to. We don't appreciate cultural or regional differences when it comes to food. You can find the same chain restaurants, in virtually any city in any state. PopEyes is considered authentic New Orleans fare to many of us. And Taco Bell is "Mexican" food. But we don't want surprises in our food. And we want a Taco Bell bean burrito to taste exactly the same wherever we go whether we're in Anchorage or Albany. With this homogenization, some foods slowly morph together, and the masses get what they want. Thus, Chinese restaurant owners have undoubtedly, over time, catered to the non-adventurous American tongue by subbing familiar mild yellow mustard for their authentic, fume-inducing Chinese one.

I suppose it's democracy at its best but the victory of plain, banal yellow mustard over Chinese mustard makes me weep, the way a good dose of Chinese mustard used to. Guess I'll go make myself a chopped ham sandwich.

Vegas For the Win!

We recently returned from our Las Vegas vacation, and it’s time to add up the wins and losses:

It hasn’t rained in this area for it seems 6 months, but it was raining as we drove to the airport for our departure: I volunteer to park the car to spare St. Pauli Girl’s hair. As soon as I park, the rain comes down even harder. I have to run to two different shuttle bus stations. By the time I get to the terminal, I’m soaked. Loss

Since it was vacation as well as 8:30 a.m., we treat ourselves to Bloody Mary’s on the plane. The debit card machine breaks down, and the flight attendant never comes back for payment. Free drinks for the Win!

Flight arrives early. Baggage arrives quickly, no waiting for the rental car. We arrive at the Paris for brunch 30 minutes earlier than planned, get a great table on the outdoor patio at Mon Ami Gabi after only a 15 minute wait. Win

“I can’t wait to gamble,” I said. “We are on quite a roll.”

VIP check-in at the Golden Nugget, no waiting. Win (Okay we paid extra for this as we were celebrating the sale of our restaurant.)

No more Elvis slot machines at the Golden Nugget. Loss

A lot of high profile chefs these days offer exclusive (read: expensive) kitchen seating where you can see all the action up close. For a mere fraction of the cost, sit at the Binion’s Café counter which is directly in front of the grill. Watch the talented grill cook handle 20 pounds of hash browns and 15 hamburgers and buns at once, plus eggs and bacon. Enjoy the show as he berates the servers for grabbing the wrong plates. And it’s tough to beat Binion’s Hangover Burger, even if you don’t have a hangover. Win for the food and the entertainment.

65-year-old male bartender singing along to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.” Win

To get away from the casinos for awhile, St. Pauli Girl finds some antique shops to browse. As we walk through a shop, we hear a woman screaming from up front:

“Don’t touch me! Don’t %&# touch me! Do you hear me? You call my grandmother and ask her who #&^% runs this shop! What did you call me? You think I’m not worldly and smart? Who the *%#@ do you think you are saying that to, *%#@*? You call my grandmother and ask her! Then you come back and tell me who the %&# runs this shop!”

At that point, we run into another vendor and ask him, “Is there a back door?”

“Oh don’t worry. This happens all the time. No big deal.”

When we hear a pause in the screaming, we run for the front door. Push (It was funny afterwards but actually pretty scary in the store.)

St. Pauli Girl orders meatloaf for dinner. Loss

At midnight, we drive past a guy sitting on the ground meditating in the lotus position on top of the Main Street Station parking garage. Win

Woman asks bartender if they have any better wines.

“Not for comps,” he replies.

“Then can I have a taste of the white zinfandel?”

Apparently even comped drinkers can be choosy. Win for entertainment.

$13.99 a day for internet access in the hotel? You can get free access at Motel 6, and they’ll leave the light on for you! Loss

Playing blackjack next to a barefoot 80 year old Chinese man who rubs his arm a certain way for luck on every hand. We both get dealt a blackjack. He gives me a fist bump. Win

Playing blackjack next to a guy who is providing color commentary on his own play. Loss

We go out to the pool bar for an afternoon cocktail, find out it’s last call. Push

Call hotel maintenance because our smoke detector keeps beeping. Before he replaces it, he asks, “You sure you don’t have anything in your luggage that’s beeping?” Push

Unsure what to do for lunch, we break down and hit the cheap buffet. Vegas buffets have become quite good over the years and some of them charge $50 to $80 per person. This one charges $7.99. And it isn’t worth it. Epic Loss

Total gambling: Loss

Our flight arrives back in Austin and apparently it hasn’t stopped raining since we left. I volunteer to get the car. It’s pouring again. I’m sure I parked in space 80, but that’s not our car. After running around and getting soaked, turns out I parked in space 60. And in another section. Plus I’m pretty sure everyone on the shuttle bus was laughing at me. Loss

The Christian Buyer's Club

We are officially out of the restaurant business after having sold our last remaining venue. I only mention it because now it means I am free to tell the horror stories. But before I get to those, I want to start with the most amazing thing I learned operating a restaurant in this here (more southern) neck of the woods: The Christian Buyer’s Club.

One day as a group of women were leaving, one of them stopped their server and handed him something. He came back to the bar laughing.

“Here’s my tip,” he said as he dropped a business card on the bar.

I picked it up and saw that the only thing on it was a Bible quote. (I wish I remembered which quote, but I don’t.)

“But they left you some cash too, right?” I asked.

“Nope, that’s it. A chance to save my soul, I guess.”

He just laughed it off and forgot about it, but I was stunned. I wasn’t opposed to a customer leaving a Bible quote tip but a cash tip was in order as well. I’m not sure how it went over when the server’s rent was due, and he handed the Bible quote to his landlord.

On a later occasion, another server approached me in the kitchen.

“My table of twelve wants to know if they can get a discount since they are a Christian Bible study group,” she asked.

I really didn’t know what to say. I had no idea that being a Christian was like being a member of Sam’s Club or Costco. Do they have some sort of membership card?

I looked at the ticket which totaled $36 for three split entrées . . . and twelve waters. I told the server, “If Jesus Christ walked in the door right now, I would not give him a discount.” We, too, had rent to pay.

(SIDENOTE: If you ever want to get discounts or comps in a restaurant, visit often and get to know the staff, and/or spend a lot of money there!)

I’m pretty sure if Jesus himself would have walked in, he wouldn’t have asked for a discount. On the other hand, he’d probably order the flounder and a bottle of wine, take advantage of the free bread, then multiply everything for all the customers. On the way out, being of the kind and generous sort, he might say, “And hey, don’t forget to take care of your servers!”

And most of the other diners would go tell their friends: “Yep. Saw Jesus in a restaurant and got a free meal. But then he made sure we left a nice tip, so that part kind of sucked.”

And who knew that WWJD stands for “What Would Jesus Discount?” Do religions compete on this? (“I don’t know, Father, this heaven thing sounds nice and all but I got a Jehovah’s Witness offering me 10% off on dry cleaning.”)

Have I missed the fine print in the brochures? (“Join now and transfer balances to the Jesus credit card with no annual fee! Jesus doesn’t want you to pay interest until 2018!”)

The hard sells?

Minister: “What can I do to get you into the baptismal font today?”

Shopper: “Well, since I keep one of those fish symbols thingies on my Toyota, maybe a little discount on oil changes?”

Minister: “I tell you what. Get three of your friends to join you in the baptismal font, free tire rotation for the life of your car!”

Shopper: “With that symbol on it, my car has eternal life, right?”

Minister: “Um yes, of course. Jesus wants you to drive that car through the pearly gates, but he’s thinking maybe something more American?”

Coupons in the church bulletin? (“Like Jesus, turn your wine into water by bringing in a bottle of water to Crazy Al’s Liquor Store and walk out with a free four-pack of Boone’s Farm Wine Coolers, strawberry or apple, your choice!”)

You might think this would make me cynical, and you would be wrong. It has turned me into a Bible scholar. I now spend my free time scanning the gospel for the section where Jesus says, “Mention my name and get valuable discounts on services and merchandise!”

More Scent of A Salmon

(This is a follow-up to a previous post)

After posting previously about our latest dining-out fish adventures, St. Pauli Girl said, “You forgot to mention that the manager said that maybe we weren’t used to such a pungent type of fish.”

Yes, he did say that. And technically he was correct because we usually eat good fish. I’m not sure I’d positively describe any food as pungent except for possibly cheese or mushrooms. But his words brought back memories of one of our restaurant ownership experiences.

One of the first things you learn in a service industry is that the customer is rarely right. Sure there are always valid complaints but 95% of the time, you can come up with a reason as to why the customer is wrong.

A few years ago, we had just started serving prime dry-aged steaks at our restaurant. A customer complained that his steak tasted rotten. I took this as an opportunity to educate the customer. I apologized and offered him another entrée instead. I then started to explain that dry-aged steaks do have a much more intense, almost nutty flavor as opposed to a regular steak.

He responded, “Yeah. Or maybe your chef isn’t rotating the meat.”

Touché.

That was the last time I tried to educate a customer. I learned that although a customer may not be right, don’t try to convince him of that.

So I regret not telling the manager at that restaurant, “Or maybe your chef isn’t rotating the fish.” Then he too could have learned this valuable lesson.

The Scent of a Salmon

For several years when eating out in a non-coastal city, St. Pauli Girl would order salmon, and then I would gently swat her on the forehead with my menu and admonish her, “No!” That’s because whether it’s a $4.99 special at a diner or a $37 entrée at Haute de Rigeur FancyPants Restaurant, ninety-five percent of the time, the salmon will taste and smell like the putrid seawater it once swam in.

This system has worked fairly well for us until the other night when I let my guard down.

“But this is one of the top ten restaurants in the city, surely they know what they’re doing,” St. Pauli Girl said.

“I don’t know. We’re a good five-hundred miles from the nearest port. That’s at least a day’s drive for that fish.”

The waiter then talked her into it. Sure enough, the salmon had to be sent back and St. Pauli Girl wondered if she should get the other fish entrée.

“No,” I said. “Don’t push your luck. Stick with the pasta.”

The waiter then talked her into the sea bass. A few minutes later, I could actually smell the sea bass as it passed by me on its way to the table. This fish was also inedible.

The manager came out, apologized, didn’t charge us for the entrée and offered us a free dessert. This was all well and good until he suggested that maybe we just weren’t used to such a flavorful fish and perhaps this entrée was a little too artistic for our palates.

I then imagined how the staff is trained on its fish dishes:

Chef: Have you ever been to the beach or a lake and stumbled across a washed up fish that’s been rotting in the sun for three days? Do you remember that pungent smell? There are no words to describe it, just that it’s fishy. And that is the essence of fish. When you think about it, it’s actually been baking in the sun for three days. And that’s the kind of taste and aroma we strive for here, just like that fresh sun-baked fish on the beach.

Server: But what if it’s winter so the fish hasn’t really baked that much?

Chef: Then it’s sushi. Let’s be honest, the ideal cut of fish is fish sticks. When you think back to the golden age of fish sticks, somewhere in the late ‘60’s or early ‘70s, they all looked, smelled and tasted the same. You smothered them in ketchup or tartar sauce until that was all you could taste. What I’m trying to achieve here is fish sticks without the sauce. We need to educate our customers because some of these high falutin’ so-called “foodies” think fish should be odorless or maybe taste more like a fine steak. If cows could swim, I’d be happy to serve that. But we serve fish here and there’s a reason the term “fishy” exists.

Manager: So how can we educate our customers?

Chef: First, always point out that the fish is flown in fresh daily. Doesn’t matter if it was on a boat for two weeks, then in a warehouse for a day, then dropped on the ground and run over by a forklift. It flies here first class.

Server: So it doesn’t matter that it takes us three or four days to exhaust our fish inventory?

Chef: Exactly! It’s flown in daily. Now if someone is complaining, suggest that maybe my sauce is too clever for their palate. Then dump a bottle of ketchup on the plate while smirking in disdain. Alright, we all know how my entrées taste. I brought in a few selections from that new sushi place down the street for comparison. Let’s examine the yellowfin tuna sashimi. Breathe in the aroma.

Manager: I don’t get anything. There’s no aroma.

Chef: Right! Serve that to a blind man and he’ll think he’s eating groundhog or prairie chicken or something else unfamiliar. But he will definitely recognize my fish. Now let’s taste it.

Server: Mmmm, very rich.

Chef: But there’s no fish flavor right?

Server: Reminds me of filet mignon.

Chef: Exactly! That’s not fish! That’s a swimming cow! Those sushi chefs must be rank amateurs. They should at least douse some saltwater on the fish or throw some stale seaweed on it.

Server: Um, yeah. So you don’t mind if I finish the leftovers?

Chef: Sure, but you’ll probably need this. (passes the server a bottle of ketchup)

Smokin' Service

Today we present another episode of “Great Moments in Dining:”

St. Pauli Girl and I recently spent a weekend away where we had the chance to enjoy dinner at a cozy wine bar/restaurant. We sat down in a good mood, as we were fortunate to get a table without a reservation on a Friday night. But then, it was only 6:00 p.m.

Within minutes of being seated our waiter arrived, much like the rolling cloud of smoke preceding the forest fires that engulfed Bastrop, Texas, earlier this year. I’ll call our waiter Marlboro Man, not because he looked like the fabled cowboy but because he smelled like he smoked three cartons a day. Anyway, things started off smoothly, as he quickly fetched our wine and came back for our food order.

Perusing the menu, we couldn’t find anything new or unusual that we wanted to try. Our best bet looked like “Fish of the Day.” So we asked Marlboro Man what it was.

“I don’t know. I’ll go find out,” he said, then darted back to the kitchen. St. Pauli Girl arched an eyebrow at me. Sloppy management or poorly trained server or both?

Yes, I agreed, but at least he admitted he didn’t know and set out to get the correct answer.

He came back, leaned on a chair on the opposite side of the table, and said. “It’s wahoo.”

We nodded our heads and waited for the description of how it was being served.

Nothing.

Apparently, they were just going to throw a wahoo on a plate. Finally, St. Pauli Girl and I both said in unison, “Is there a sauce or something with it?”

“Yes,” Marlboro Man said matter-of-factly.

Great! We smiled and waited. Again, nothing.

The long silence finally threw Marlboro Man into action. “It’s some kind of lime reduction thingy.”

To spare all of us more pain, I responded, “I’ll have the ribeye.”

Dinner was served and Marlboro Man was quite attentive, constantly checking our water glasses. I guess to avoid interrupting our conversation, he resorted to raising his eyebrows and making an “ok” sign with his fingers as he walked past our table. I began responding with a “thumbs-up” sign.

After a decent meal, we decided to not force Marlboro Man to recite the dessert list because he probably would have said, “Yeah, we got this chocolatey thing. And pie and um … some dessert.”

We asked for the check and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, he came back and set the check on the table.

“Have a nice night,” he said. Then he walked away, leaving a trail of fresh smoke in his wake.

I inhaled deeply. “Ah yes,” I said. “Just coming off a Friday night mid-shift break.” I sniffed the air and closed my eyes. “Camel non-filtered, vintage 2010.”

When he brought the credit card slip back, he thanked us again and gave us another “okay” sign for good measure.

For the tip, I drew a picture of a “thumbs-up.”