Garçon, bill please!

Patience, as my 87-year-old mother continues to remind me, is a virtue. It is not, I fear, one of mine. Those who know me probably think I sometimes become annoyed rather easily – at restaurants, in the grocery store, at the cinema, etc. I prefer to think that I merely have a modicum of standards and that I don’t suffer fools gladly.

At a restaurant, por ejemplo, I don’t want to wait 15 or 20 minutes after being seated for a server to glance our way and then, if the spirit moves them, to wander over to see if we might like a libation or if we’re ready to order our meal. There’s one place in town that has notoriously bad service. Trouble is, it's close by and, during our two and a half weeks of summer, they have a pleasant patio that overlooks the beautiful river that runs through the city. Sometimes the draw is irresistible, particularly for unsuspecting out-of-towners.

Take, for instance, the time that Brad’s sister and brother-in-law were visiting from Ontario a couple of summers ago. They wanted lobster and they wanted it al fresco. We tried to warn them. We did everything in our power to steer them toward our favourite haunt. But no. It had to be outdoors and by the river. Only one place would do. So off we went. Long story short, it was a disaster from start to finish. Of course, there was lots of waiting involved, and the server was a complete, gum-snapping bimbette. Brad’s sis ordered a chardonnay, and at least 15 minutes later, “Hi! My name is Tammy and I’ll be lookin' after you this evening” unceremoniously plops down a glass of red in front of her. “I’m sorry,” said K, “but I ordered a chardonnay." “Yeah,” Tammy burbled, “That’s it. That’s your chardonnay.” And so it went. (By this point I have to say that I was actually kind of relishing the I told you so-id-ness of it all.) The evening culminated when K and M naively requested some melted butter in which to dip their lobster. After looking at them as though they were from some outer moon of Juipter, Tammy returns with 2 small metal containers, each containing soft, but not melted, butter. With something akin to pride, she explained that, since she couldn't put the containers in the microwave, she had put them under the heat lamp to soften the butter up, but had been unable to leave them there too long for fear they’d get too hot and she wouldn’t be able to handle them. K patiently explained that, despite her valiant efforts, softened butter was not what they wanted – that they wanted MELTED butter for dipping their lobster. Tammy rolled her eyes and heaved a heavy sigh as she traipsed back to the kitchen yet again with the two metal butter dishes. Ten minutes later (by which point most of the lobster had been consumed, sans buerre), back comes Tammy with one glass bowl of melted better. “You two are married, aren’tcha?” she inquired of K and M. She had, you see, brought just the one bowl and hoped they could share.