When Bad Service Goes Too Good
Perhaps it was extremely low blood sugar, on top of a cocktail-hour strong margarita at home. About two weeks ago, my senses left me - and I nearly dragged the Dinner Beau to a place we don’t frequent on our own time and dime, especially on a Friday night - a corporate, chain, very commercial restaurant on Hanes Mall Blvd.
See, when I reviewed Firebirds back earlier this year, I was unexpectedly taken with their salads. Huge and crisp, and served on snazzy, sleek white rectangular plates, I loved the jicama. I loved the light cilantro and lime vinaigrette, the way it lightly but persistently coated each leaf.
When Firebirds first opened, it was jammed tight. By now things have settled down and you can get a table right away at 9 p.m. on a Friday night - or at least we could on this night.
What proved harder was getting a waiter. Well, perhaps getting him, and then keeping him. We saw him once - he might have mumbled something about getting water - and then he went MIA for probably 30 minutes.
Now, I hate being jumped all over as soon as I get a table in a restaurant, but I do think there’s a certain amount of solicitation that good servers should do at the beginning of a meal (for one, give customers a chance to actually look at the wine list before they sit down).
Corporate chains are uncanny in their ability to train wait staff to conform to a certain company line (when your server asks you if “everything is delicious” as they nod their head, don’t you think they are trying to encourage a positive answer?). Apparently they do some similar training for emergency situations when they’ve been bad, too. My husband spotted our server when he had his aha moment, as in “Aha, I completely forgot about those people.” Suddenly he couldn’t do enough for us. He offered a free appetizer, which was unfortunately all we were ordering on top of the salad.
“Another drink? Everything’s on the house now,” he grinned, looking at us sideways and puncuating it with a thumbs up, like a politician hungry for our votes on Election Day. Then the bill came - $0.00, circled in dark ink.
By now, we were squirming in our seats. Maybe other people would have been better at exploiting the situation, but I just felt gross, like I was on a bad date with an over-eager puppy. A slobbery puppy.
A simple apology and perhaps taking one thing off the bill would have worked. And we wouldn’t have been so eager to leave. We might have even stayed around for one more drink.
I have to add, I seriously doubt I was recognized. I don’t exactly frequent Firebirds and they didn’t get a chance to see my debit card.
Sadly, the salads at Firebirds appear to have taken a nosedive. Everything that was supposed to be crisp and crunchy on our plate had reached a soggy state by the time we got it. Then again, maybe it had something to do with the waiter.
