Worst. Service. Ever. (giggle)
Hahaha ... I sit at my computer tonight after receiving the worst service at a restaurant in my entire life. It was so bad that I can not but be amused! Who ever thought that a bad waiter would make a good clown?
I leave the details, for those that wish to delve into the experience that can only be known as
After receiving a vicarious invitation through nightcat22 from Verger to experience a fine night out dining at a local restaurant, also know as "Azteca", I was picked up by the aforementioned puppy to be taken to are place of comestible experience. We arrived and were seated in a small booth in the corner. This was much before we noticed that we had accidentally stumbled into the wrong restaurant, and that the sign outside spat out loudly in neon colors "Ass-teca." But this, we would soon find out.
We were approached by a waiter, name of Tony, who seemed to be a nice enough fellow. He asked us if we were ready to order drinks. We did that. "A sprite, with a slice of lemon and a slice of lime as well." said Verger. "The same," said John. I spoke up at this point, having spotted something that looked tasty in the menu. "I'll have a full carafe of your sangria." (I'm not so much of a lush though, it was my intention to share it with Nightcat.) Nightcat ordered his coke, no, they only had pepsi (forgivable.) "Oh," I appended, "I'll also have a Dr. Pepper." We also ordered our appetizers, a steak quesadilla and an order of Nachos.
At this point, our waiter looked a little confused. But he nodded and spat out "yes" and "okay" to our orders, all the while scribbling down something (we have yet to fathom what he was writing) on that little pad of paper waiters carry around. Perhaps he was drawing stick figures, or large breasted mexican women. Whatever it was, it is safe to say that what he used that pad for was not, under any circumstances, to write down our orders.
Fifteen minutes later, our drinks arrived. (Apparently they are VERY CAREFUL when pouring sodas.) My Dr. Pepper and Nightcat's Pepsi arrived intact ... but the two sprites appeared missing their slices of lemon and lime. And their straws. "Well, maybe the order was a tiny bit confusing." I thought. We discussed, it was decided at that point that there would be a small deduction of money from Tony's tip. All of this, however, was forgivable.
Maybe ten minutes later, our appetizers arrived, the nachos, thankfully where perfect in their preparation. The quesadilla, however, was topped not with steak, but with ground beef. For those of you poor souls who have sworn off meat, or have never eaten at a mexican restaurant, you may not be aware of this but there is a vast difference in preparation between mexican "Carne Asada" steak and the apparently powdered meat like substance they call ground beef at such establishments.
This was not boding to well, but still, we endured. We talked to eachother for a moment at the table and told our waiter that we were ready to order. He walked. Away. From the table. Now just for clarity, walking away from the table in no way resembles asking for our orders. We look oddly at eachother and discuss tip once again.
Ten minutes later. (For those of you not keeping track, roughly 35 minutes after we sat down.) The waiter passed us again. "Excuse us!" we chimed. "Over here!" we said. Yes! We grabbed Tony's attention. "We're ready to order!" His response was a thickly accented "Yes." He also replaced my empty drink and Nightcat's.
Let me take a small side trip in the middle of our story. This is to discuss Denny's. You know the place, we've all been there, and for those of us who drink or consume other things that make us a little less than able to read, we value Denny's for one reason and one reason only: You don't have to speak to order. You open your menu, and with a smile, place your finger on the brightly colored picture of the dish that you wish brought to you. BRILLIANT!
The reason I mention this is, while such service may be deemed admirable in a restraunt, never before had I been forced to order my food in this manner. "Grande Combo" I said. "With Burrito and Chile Relleno."
Our waiter looked at me blankly. I pointed to the menu. "Grande Combo." I said again. "What kind?" our waiter replied. "Burrito and Chile Relleno." Blank stare. I point to my menu at the words "Burrito." and then "Relleno." He responds by drawing more stick figures on his pad. John orders and experiences the same. Verger orders, telling the waiter that he did not want any tomatos on his tacos. (I know that somewhere, deep within his heart, he was searching for a picture somewhere that completely, and utterly, lacked any sign of a tomato.)
This is when we realized the largest mistake that had been made the entire night. Many people visit mexican restaurants and encounter waiters that don't speak english. But some how, out of the black void within the devil's ass, we managed to snag the only mexican waiter in the universe that not only did not speak english, but did not speak spanish either.
After watching each of us order our food in this ridiculous manner, being forced to look up the dish in our menus that we had already closed, Nightcat holds up his menu, his finger placed firmly on the image of a large burger with cheese melting perfectly underneath it's sesame seeded bun, and says "BUR-GER". Like it was two separate words.
I have to backpedal a little bit, moving again to the subject of drinks. If any of you have bothered to keep track, you may have noticed one or two things that are strange on the subject. First, you would have noticed that I ordered a carafe of sangria at the very beginning of the meal, and it has, as of yet, not shown up at our table. Also, one would have noticed that while me and Nightcat are sitting cozy with our refilled sodas, Verger and John's sodas have remained conspicuously empty throughout this entire enterprise. All of this was noted to the waiter, with me carefully asking for "A carafe of sangria, with two glasses."
I get my sangria later, biting my lip to hold back a laugh. Tony has brought to me two glasses of sangria. Thus far tony has not been able to get a single part of our meal right. He also seems to have an epiphany at this point that he may not be doing a stellar job.
As tony walks away, we once again discuss tip. After my insistence upon leaving a tip, (Leaving no tip means that you forgot to, which makes you the ass. Leaving a small tip lets the waiter know you didn't forget and he just earned crap.) we decided upon the proper amount. Verger made quick work of cutting a penny in half with his pocket tool so that we could leave it on the table.
About twenty five minutes later, a full hour since we sat down to eat, our food is brought to us. Before it even hits the table, Verger spots the large mountain of tomatoes that has been placed upon his tacos. I can not tell you how difficult it is to express "The order is wrong, take it back to the kitchen." to a man who understands only brightly colored photographs. We did, however, with one of Tony's coworker's help, explain the concept to the man.
We now have all of our food except for the tacos. In a moment of inspiration the tacos are removed and thirty seconds later a brand new plate of tacos is brought ... wait, thirty seconds? If only the rest of our service had been this fast! Of course, one can not prepare a brand new plate of tacos in thirty seconds without breaking several of the laws of physics and thermodynamics (and several health code regulations.) There was only time enough for the plate to have been walked briskly to the kitchen, tomatoes removed by hand, and a small amount of cheese dusted on top to make it look like a new plate.
I had insisted earlier that we politely wait until we received our cheque before talking with a manager. At this point, I was assailed with requests, and I conceded. The manager must be talked to immediately.
Have you ever watched Spaceballs? Here, let me give you a brief taste:
Dark Helmet: I said across her nose, not up it! Who fired that shot?
Soldier #1: I did sir!
Dark Helmet: And who are you?
Helmet's Adviser: He's an Asshole sir.
Dark Helmet: I know that! But what's his name?
Soldier #2: That is his name, sir. Lieutenant Gunner Asshole.
Dark Helmet: And who are you?
Soldier #2: I'm his cousin sir, Major Asshole.
Dark Helmet: How many Assholes are on this ship?!
EVERYONE: HO, SIR!
Dark Helmet: ASSHOLES! I'm surrounded by ASSHOLES!
At this point in time, I deeply identified with Dark Helmet.
I skipped ordering the Fried Ice Cream, even though it looked really good. We all decided to pack up our boxes and leaves. The had managed to screw up everything that the did, even to the point of the manager screwing up our comped meal (He still charged us for the sodas, even though he had specifically said that he'd give us everything but the alcohol for free.)
I must say, though, it was the most entertaining dining experience I have ever had.
I leave the details, for those that wish to delve into the experience that can only be known as
After receiving a vicarious invitation through nightcat22 from Verger to experience a fine night out dining at a local restaurant, also know as "Azteca", I was picked up by the aforementioned puppy to be taken to are place of comestible experience. We arrived and were seated in a small booth in the corner. This was much before we noticed that we had accidentally stumbled into the wrong restaurant, and that the sign outside spat out loudly in neon colors "Ass-teca." But this, we would soon find out.
We were approached by a waiter, name of Tony, who seemed to be a nice enough fellow. He asked us if we were ready to order drinks. We did that. "A sprite, with a slice of lemon and a slice of lime as well." said Verger. "The same," said John. I spoke up at this point, having spotted something that looked tasty in the menu. "I'll have a full carafe of your sangria." (I'm not so much of a lush though, it was my intention to share it with Nightcat.) Nightcat ordered his coke, no, they only had pepsi (forgivable.) "Oh," I appended, "I'll also have a Dr. Pepper." We also ordered our appetizers, a steak quesadilla and an order of Nachos.
At this point, our waiter looked a little confused. But he nodded and spat out "yes" and "okay" to our orders, all the while scribbling down something (we have yet to fathom what he was writing) on that little pad of paper waiters carry around. Perhaps he was drawing stick figures, or large breasted mexican women. Whatever it was, it is safe to say that what he used that pad for was not, under any circumstances, to write down our orders.
Fifteen minutes later, our drinks arrived. (Apparently they are VERY CAREFUL when pouring sodas.) My Dr. Pepper and Nightcat's Pepsi arrived intact ... but the two sprites appeared missing their slices of lemon and lime. And their straws. "Well, maybe the order was a tiny bit confusing." I thought. We discussed, it was decided at that point that there would be a small deduction of money from Tony's tip. All of this, however, was forgivable.
Maybe ten minutes later, our appetizers arrived, the nachos, thankfully where perfect in their preparation. The quesadilla, however, was topped not with steak, but with ground beef. For those of you poor souls who have sworn off meat, or have never eaten at a mexican restaurant, you may not be aware of this but there is a vast difference in preparation between mexican "Carne Asada" steak and the apparently powdered meat like substance they call ground beef at such establishments.
This was not boding to well, but still, we endured. We talked to eachother for a moment at the table and told our waiter that we were ready to order. He walked. Away. From the table. Now just for clarity, walking away from the table in no way resembles asking for our orders. We look oddly at eachother and discuss tip once again.
Ten minutes later. (For those of you not keeping track, roughly 35 minutes after we sat down.) The waiter passed us again. "Excuse us!" we chimed. "Over here!" we said. Yes! We grabbed Tony's attention. "We're ready to order!" His response was a thickly accented "Yes." He also replaced my empty drink and Nightcat's.
Let me take a small side trip in the middle of our story. This is to discuss Denny's. You know the place, we've all been there, and for those of us who drink or consume other things that make us a little less than able to read, we value Denny's for one reason and one reason only: You don't have to speak to order. You open your menu, and with a smile, place your finger on the brightly colored picture of the dish that you wish brought to you. BRILLIANT!
The reason I mention this is, while such service may be deemed admirable in a restraunt, never before had I been forced to order my food in this manner. "Grande Combo" I said. "With Burrito and Chile Relleno."
Our waiter looked at me blankly. I pointed to the menu. "Grande Combo." I said again. "What kind?" our waiter replied. "Burrito and Chile Relleno." Blank stare. I point to my menu at the words "Burrito." and then "Relleno." He responds by drawing more stick figures on his pad. John orders and experiences the same. Verger orders, telling the waiter that he did not want any tomatos on his tacos. (I know that somewhere, deep within his heart, he was searching for a picture somewhere that completely, and utterly, lacked any sign of a tomato.)
This is when we realized the largest mistake that had been made the entire night. Many people visit mexican restaurants and encounter waiters that don't speak english. But some how, out of the black void within the devil's ass, we managed to snag the only mexican waiter in the universe that not only did not speak english, but did not speak spanish either.
After watching each of us order our food in this ridiculous manner, being forced to look up the dish in our menus that we had already closed, Nightcat holds up his menu, his finger placed firmly on the image of a large burger with cheese melting perfectly underneath it's sesame seeded bun, and says "BUR-GER". Like it was two separate words.
I have to backpedal a little bit, moving again to the subject of drinks. If any of you have bothered to keep track, you may have noticed one or two things that are strange on the subject. First, you would have noticed that I ordered a carafe of sangria at the very beginning of the meal, and it has, as of yet, not shown up at our table. Also, one would have noticed that while me and Nightcat are sitting cozy with our refilled sodas, Verger and John's sodas have remained conspicuously empty throughout this entire enterprise. All of this was noted to the waiter, with me carefully asking for "A carafe of sangria, with two glasses."
I get my sangria later, biting my lip to hold back a laugh. Tony has brought to me two glasses of sangria. Thus far tony has not been able to get a single part of our meal right. He also seems to have an epiphany at this point that he may not be doing a stellar job.
As tony walks away, we once again discuss tip. After my insistence upon leaving a tip, (Leaving no tip means that you forgot to, which makes you the ass. Leaving a small tip lets the waiter know you didn't forget and he just earned crap.) we decided upon the proper amount. Verger made quick work of cutting a penny in half with his pocket tool so that we could leave it on the table.
About twenty five minutes later, a full hour since we sat down to eat, our food is brought to us. Before it even hits the table, Verger spots the large mountain of tomatoes that has been placed upon his tacos. I can not tell you how difficult it is to express "The order is wrong, take it back to the kitchen." to a man who understands only brightly colored photographs. We did, however, with one of Tony's coworker's help, explain the concept to the man.
We now have all of our food except for the tacos. In a moment of inspiration the tacos are removed and thirty seconds later a brand new plate of tacos is brought ... wait, thirty seconds? If only the rest of our service had been this fast! Of course, one can not prepare a brand new plate of tacos in thirty seconds without breaking several of the laws of physics and thermodynamics (and several health code regulations.) There was only time enough for the plate to have been walked briskly to the kitchen, tomatoes removed by hand, and a small amount of cheese dusted on top to make it look like a new plate.
I had insisted earlier that we politely wait until we received our cheque before talking with a manager. At this point, I was assailed with requests, and I conceded. The manager must be talked to immediately.
Have you ever watched Spaceballs? Here, let me give you a brief taste:
Dark Helmet: I said across her nose, not up it! Who fired that shot?
Soldier #1: I did sir!
Dark Helmet: And who are you?
Helmet's Adviser: He's an Asshole sir.
Dark Helmet: I know that! But what's his name?
Soldier #2: That is his name, sir. Lieutenant Gunner Asshole.
Dark Helmet: And who are you?
Soldier #2: I'm his cousin sir, Major Asshole.
Dark Helmet: How many Assholes are on this ship?!
EVERYONE: HO, SIR!
Dark Helmet: ASSHOLES! I'm surrounded by ASSHOLES!
At this point in time, I deeply identified with Dark Helmet.
I skipped ordering the Fried Ice Cream, even though it looked really good. We all decided to pack up our boxes and leaves. The had managed to screw up everything that the did, even to the point of the manager screwing up our comped meal (He still charged us for the sodas, even though he had specifically said that he'd give us everything but the alcohol for free.)
I must say, though, it was the most entertaining dining experience I have ever had.