what is it with these days, kids? I leave the Ea.Coa. and all hell breaks loose, I come to the We.Coa. and everything gets lame!
should I be taking a hint?
I think I should bring the classic starlet back in style.
<3moi.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Bitterly's
Do you have Friendly's on the west coast? Well, for those of you who don't know, Friendly's is a sweet little ice cream parlor-cum-classic American diner with fun circus and town fair images and commercials with little kids saving their milk money to take grandma out to lunch for Valentine's Day. It's so precious, and with a name like "Friendly's", how could one not be enticed into sitting down for a wholesome cup o' joe and a good conversation over a hearty plate of homestyle meatloaf?
Well, slow service, bad coffee and food that sits in your stomach like a rock, that's how. What angers me most is that I am constantly duped into going in - always wanting to give the good old stand-by a chance. But, the minute I walk into a Friendly's, I remember why I vowed last tiem never to return again.
Tonight, Craig and I went for a late dinner. First of all, it took long enough to get someone's attention that we wanted a seat. When finally someone noticed us, he motioned us to follow him, or at least I thought he did. I found it odd that the restaurant was maybe one-third full, but everyone was packed into one corner. "Well, I guess it's a large party or something. Maybe they all just got out of a concert or play." So, I follow the hyper gentleman to the less-populated back area of the restaurant where I thought he would be seating us, but he stopped short to clean off a table that was smack in the middle of every guest in there. "I like to keep everyone together," he said in a creepy, overly controlling manner.
"Oh, that's nice of you, but we'd like to sit over there." He ignered my request and went to the back to get a towel to wipe down the table. Upon his return, I asked again if we could sit in a little less conspicuous area.
"I like to keep everyone together," he kept saying. "And i just started cleaning over here."
"Oh, I see. Well, we're paying you for dinner, so we'd like to sit here." I had it in for this man the minute I stepped in there. I was lashing out not just at him, but at every awkward, uncomfortable, bitter waiter I've ever had at Friendly's across New England.
"You know what you want? No?! Well, you look at the menu more because I'm VERY busy."
I said, "Excuse me, don't tell me you're busy. That's what happens when you work at Friendly's. It's called fast food."
Looking back, I'm not sure why I felt the need to bitch him out so. I think it might be the atrocious lighting and the elevator muzak that puts me into PMS mode - and the smell of all that high-fructose corn syrup and the thin layer of carmelized glaze coating every inch of every table and banquette.
Perhaps I'll take Theresa there for her Birthday.
Well, slow service, bad coffee and food that sits in your stomach like a rock, that's how. What angers me most is that I am constantly duped into going in - always wanting to give the good old stand-by a chance. But, the minute I walk into a Friendly's, I remember why I vowed last tiem never to return again.
Tonight, Craig and I went for a late dinner. First of all, it took long enough to get someone's attention that we wanted a seat. When finally someone noticed us, he motioned us to follow him, or at least I thought he did. I found it odd that the restaurant was maybe one-third full, but everyone was packed into one corner. "Well, I guess it's a large party or something. Maybe they all just got out of a concert or play." So, I follow the hyper gentleman to the less-populated back area of the restaurant where I thought he would be seating us, but he stopped short to clean off a table that was smack in the middle of every guest in there. "I like to keep everyone together," he said in a creepy, overly controlling manner.
"Oh, that's nice of you, but we'd like to sit over there." He ignered my request and went to the back to get a towel to wipe down the table. Upon his return, I asked again if we could sit in a little less conspicuous area.
"I like to keep everyone together," he kept saying. "And i just started cleaning over here."
"Oh, I see. Well, we're paying you for dinner, so we'd like to sit here." I had it in for this man the minute I stepped in there. I was lashing out not just at him, but at every awkward, uncomfortable, bitter waiter I've ever had at Friendly's across New England.
"You know what you want? No?! Well, you look at the menu more because I'm VERY busy."
I said, "Excuse me, don't tell me you're busy. That's what happens when you work at Friendly's. It's called fast food."
Looking back, I'm not sure why I felt the need to bitch him out so. I think it might be the atrocious lighting and the elevator muzak that puts me into PMS mode - and the smell of all that high-fructose corn syrup and the thin layer of carmelized glaze coating every inch of every table and banquette.
Perhaps I'll take Theresa there for her Birthday.
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