"Oh, Waiter?"

Home from a date night that went so wrong it almost circled back around to right....

Once a year our local business folks hold Restaurant Week, during which participating restaurateurs offer a limited menu at an attractive price to lure in new visitors. It's a very popular promotion. We like to take the opportunity to try new places or cuisines, stretch a bit beyond the familiar. 

Our date gets off to a good start. The space is long, narrow and small, with maybe 15 tables, a bar along one side, and the kitchen in the back. It's modern-fancy; we're ready for something special. We're greeted by a man we learn is the owner, and you couldn't ask for a happier, friendlier host. He says it's his first day ever taking part in Restaurant Week, and we're delighted to tell him that's why we came. He's knowledgeable about the menu, answers all our questions. We're in good hands.

Our three-course meal starts well. We notice our host is the only person in the front of the house, and he's already hustling like a plate spinner on the Ed Sullivan show (look it up, kids). Then more people come in. Right about then Karen says, "I don't think they have any idea what Restaurant Week is going to do to them."

Our host disappears into the kitchen. Five minutes. Ten minutes. A couple walks in the door, waits to be seated, leaves. Two men walk in, sit at the bar, wait a while, leave. There's nobody minding the tables or the bar. Nobody comes to take customers' orders. 

We will not see the owner the rest of the long night. He's cooking now. Instead, hospitality is in the hands of a younger man, maybe the owner's little brother, and a deer in headlights would have shown more poise and presence of mind than this poor kid. He's lost, wandering from table to table holding plates of food, asking each customer, "Did you order this?" A customer asks for a beer; the kid spends five minutes opening and reopening every door behind the bar before reporting back that he couldn't find one.

Meanwhile, nothing's coming out of the kitchen. We realize they're deeper underwater than the Titanic. A couple beside us is grumbling. Another couple behind us tells the kid they're tired of waiting for their order and leaves. The kid emerges from the kitchen a half minute later with their food in his hands and just stares at the the empty table. His brain has melted. Having no idea what to do, he puts their plates on the corner of the bar, where they sit the rest of the evening. 

At first, Karen and I are bemused. The food is tasty, we're in no hurry, and we can put up with a lot. "Let's see where this goes." After a while, though, I'm feeling acute second-hand embarrassment fading into horror. They seem like nice people and the first day of Restaurant Week is a complete disaster for them.

We had a good date. We thought the food itself was great, but food is only half the dining experience. The other half? Not so great. But it's a story, and sometimes a story is worth the not-so-great. 

I won't name the restaurant because I sincerely wish them the best. We probably won't be back anytime soon. But we're glad we went.