You could call this a restaurant review. You could also call this a wart on the butt of the service-industry. Or you could just mark it off to another card-carrying harpy sinking her claws into some unsuspecting, still-warm piece of meat. Ultimately, you’ll chose one, and we can just shake our heads and move on.
The establishment in question is a little club situated in one of our many dry counties. Since it’s the only place in the area that serves liquor, the local college punks and area Bubbas turn out in force to inflict a little down-home harm.
A friend and I went there to enjoy the music of some friends of mine who are popular in the Little Rock music scene. We had no idea what sort of glorified sale-barn we were walking into.
Inside, we noticed that there were no tables directly in front of the entertainment, so we asked permission to move a table to the front. This was our first miscalculation. Moving a table obviously caused some confusion among waitresses. It became a “non-station.” We were outcasts, fooling with the order in their chaos. But we waited patiently for a waitress to appear, and after fifteen minutes, I got up and went to the bar to request some service for our table. The bartender said he’d send a waitress right over. Satisfied, I went back to my seat. The band began their first set of the evening, and we listened, alternately smiling at them and rubber-necking in search of this alleged waitress. Thirty minutes had passed, and we had neither been spoken to, nor offered anything to drink.
I got up again and asked the bartender if there was a manager on duty. He said, “A manager?” and then sort of pointed at himself, as if this was an untested idea. I told him we had been there 30 minutes, and would like to order some food and drinks, and what’s-the-matter, didn’t-he-want- our-money? He turned to one of the waitresses and said, “Hey, they’ve been here for thirty minutes and haven’t been served yet.” She nodded and said she’d be right there. It only took her another 10 minutes to make the trip. We ordered, and within another five minutes or so, we actually got our iced tea. No spoon or anything to stir the sweetener in with, but by golly, we got our tea. My friend stirred hers with a lemon wedge, and I used the tried and true jiggle-method.Finally, the cheese dip and chips came. And remember, oh Patrons of Culinary Delights, for a mere $3.75, you too can have nuked Cheese-Whiz with water and peppers mixed in, along with stale, reheated tortilla chips. The bowl was only half full, (or was it half-empty?) and I’ll bet that was a good quarter cup of charming queso. Then our bacon cheeseburgers came, complete with that optional side of fries for an extra ninety-five cents. I counted, and that came to about eleven cents per fry. What a deal. And how delightful that they were brave enough to serve them cold. The burgers were overcooked and had that homemade charred flavor that can only be achieved by not cleaning the grill for a year. And we had to go get our ketchup and napkins from the bar. In case you think this is the end, au contraire! Insult was added to injury when we were both accosted by an elderly cowpoke whom I loving refer to as the “Velcro Papaw.”
He pulled up an uninvited chair next to me, plastered himself against my side and began his pick-up routine, no doubt perfected by decades of rehearsal, if the wrinkles on his face were any indication. He wanted to dance, and was sure that my refusal was simply my attempt at being coy. I assure you that I am a lot of things, but coy is not on the list. He continued to pummel away at my resolve, while I continued to move my chair away from him. He extolled the virtues of the VFW club: “Now THAT’S the place to be...why don’t we go there?” I told him I had to get up early for work. He said so did he, and what’s a little sleep-loss? He persisted in asking for my phone number. I told him I didn’t have a phone. Undaunted, he leaned over and offered the same deal to my friend, who graciously said “No thanks.”
He battered her with his testosterone poisoning for a few minutes, asking her for her phone number, too, until I told him, “I don’t think her husband would like that.” He said it didn’t bother him none if she was married “if you know whut I mean...” wink-wink. Then he asked me if I was married and I lied about that, too. I should have known it was not an effective way to dissuade this paragon if moral turpitude. I mean, what part of “no” did he not understand: the “N” or the “O”? I told him we were about to leave anyway, and I stood up, praying that a waitress would appear next to the table with our check. (If wishes were horses, beggars would ride). I went over to the bar to pay, and while waiting for change I glanced back at the table. The Velcro Papaw had sticker- burred himself to my friend, and all I could see was her shaking her head over and over. I got my change and returned to the table, and another cowpoke moved in for the kill. He placed his hands all over my shoulders, squeezing and rubbing and asking for a dance. I summarily removed his hand and shot him a telling glance. They returned to their own table, then, and we sat down to listen to the rest of the set.
When the set was over, the band took a break and followed us outside to say goodnight.
The next day, our musician friends told us it was fortunate that we left when we did. The crowd eventually became belligerent. Some young men collected at a table began screaming requests: “Play Fleetwood Mac.” The singer told them on the microphone that she had just done a Fleetwood Mac song, and they continued to request it, oblivious.
The repartee dissolved into crude comments to the female singer like, “Why don’t you play some George Jones or Merle Haggard...or why don’t you play with yourSELF?” I won’t even go into the other derogatory, prejudical, and slanderous comments that ensued after this.
I’m not sure what it is about the mix of uneducated, uncivilized humans and a bottle of beer, but for performing musicians and attentive audience members, the disrespect and total disregard for decency is out of control. The management of this little “supper club” and some of the clientele it draws, should be staked to a fire-ant hill and left to the devices of the food chain.From now on, I think I’ll stick to the larger towns where talent is appreciated, and restaurants care about the quality of their food and their service.
