the definition of bad service

I waited tables for five years before I got my current job. I waited in super-fine Boylston St. bistros and I waited in super-crappy Central NY chain dives. I’ve dealt with all-you-can-eat pasta specials and I’ve dealt with customers who wanted their sea bass filet-ed table-side. So I know good service and I know bad service. And there is nothing I loathe more than bad service.

–Cue Rant–

Last night katsu and I headed out around 9:30 to get a bite to eat and some beverages. It was a late hour for Moody St, and after trying two bars whose kitchens had closed, we decided to try Margarita’s. The friendly hostess tells us that we have exactly five minutes to order, and, not wanting to be difficult, we grab two seats at the bar. So we ask the bartender for menus and he’s all “YOU HAVE LIKE TWO MINUTES TO ORDER MAN. SERIOUSLY.”

woah, ok, big boy.

60 seconds later, our order is placed. We each grab a beer, mine a Widmer Hefewizen, his a Dos Equis. As we sip, I notice that the bartenders are giving me the eye – not the “what a smokin’ babe” eye, but rather the “what are those fuckers doing coming in here two minutes before the kitchen closes” eye. Mind you, the place is not exactly dead. I’d guess it was half-filled with a varied assortment of white-hat-backwards-muscle-guys, tight-shirt-wearing-implant-girls, and maybe a handful of normal people, but mostly the greek-life set hamming it up over mexican cocktails.

So we get our food and we are eating our food and then we need more beer. Generally, in a bar, an empty glass should signal the bartender to inquire if the customer might care for another beverage. Apparently, that is not the case in this establishment. The three (count ’em THREE) bartenders slammed about the bar cleaning and mixing and flirting with the girls with the low-cut shirts and generally ignoring the empty glass. Finally I flag one of them down.

The beer, a Hefewizen, is grudgingly poured and set on the bar in front of us. It is the color of a coffee milkshake. Something is amiss.

Obviously, the (three) bartenders were too busy ogling the clientele and breaking glasses to respond to Katsumi’s polite round of “excuse me”s, so I strapped on my bitch shoes and took things into my own hands.

“Excuse me – does this beer look alright to you”

“um”

“because it looks not right to me”

“um”

“this other glass has the same beer. you see how it looks DIFFERENT?”

“um”

“kind of like a MILKSHAKE?”

“um, it’s an unfiltered wheat beer”

duh, idiot, I know it’s a fucking unfiltered wheat beer. I love unfiltered wheat beer. I’ve drank more fucking unfiltered wheat beer than you’ve seen in your whole fratboy LIFE, asshole. And this is NOT OKAY UNFILTERED WHEAT BEER.

He poured us another at my request, but I could not believe that he tried to pass the beer off as normal!! In closing, I am never going to Margarita’s on Moody St. ever again. Iguana Cantina forever!!!

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