There’s a thread going on now in In My Humble Opinion on why Red Lobster is failing as a restaurant chain. I’m afraid I may be the reason for the restaurant’s decline, and it’s time to come clean.
Waaaay back in the mid-1980s, when I was in college, I took a date to Red Lobster. And the memory has haunted me ever since.
Now, understand … the date itself was okay. I mean, it’s not like I dropped a piece of steak down the bodice of my date’s dress, as I did when I went to my high-school prom. No, it was a good date overall – a nice dinner out before going to a play. Granted, I can’t remember at this point exactly who the date was with, because it’s been 30 years, but other than my sudden and inexplicable desire to change my entire life history at the restaurant everything went fine.
Here’s what happened. As I mentioned, my date and I were going to see a play that evening at our university, and I thought it would be a good idea beforehand to go out for a nice dinner. I suggested this, and my date readily agreed. We chose Red Lobster as our dining destination.
I can hear the more urbane among you rolling your eyes now. “Red LOBSTER?!” you’re thinking. “You’re taking a date to Red Lobster and you think that’s a nice dinner out?” First, chill. Keep in mind this was the mid-80s, in Birmingham, Alabama, and we’d already gone to Quincy’s often enough that the manager knew me by name. So cut me some slack.
Anyway, because we were having a “nice” date, as opposed to a “lounge around in sweatpants and eat pizza while we watch The Cosby Show” date, we dressed up a bit. I wore khakis, a white shirt and a navy blazer, while my date wore a dress of some sort. We were stylin’, believe me. I didn’t usually dress so snazzy. And maybe that played a part in what happened.
So we walked into Red Lobster. It was about six p.m. on a Saturday night, and the waiting area was already pretty full. My date was concerned we wouldn’t be able to get a table and eat in time to make our 8 p.m. play, and I said I’d see how long the wait was and we’d go from there.
I walked up to the greeting station, and then it got weird.
“How long is the wait?” I asked. I had a slight catch in my voice for some reason, so I cleared my throat. Apparently that made me sound different, because the server did a brief double-take before she answered. “About 30 minutes, sir. What name?”
And I said, with what I considered to be a Russian accent, “Romanoff.”
Now, my last name isn’t Romanoff. I’d never been to the (then) Soviet Union. This was Reagan’s America, and Commies weren’t high on anybody’s Christmas-card list. I have no earthly idea what came over me to pretend to be Russian. I didn’t even know how to do it.
The server gaped. Literally. I’ve never, before or since, see someone look so amazed. “Where are you from?” she asked. And I threw caution to the winds. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Vladivostok,” I said. “In Soviet Union. I am … how you say … exchange student.” All of this spoken in an accent that I thought sounded Russian, based on the way Yakov Smirnoff talked in his comedy routines.
“Just a minute,” she said, and darted off. I went back to my date, and I must have looked strange, because she asked me what was wrong.
“I’m not sure,” I said quietly. “I think I just messed up. We may need to leave.”
“What? Why?”
“Because the waitress thinks I’m Russian,” I said.
“WHAT? Why would she think that?” And then, after a moment’s thought: “What did you do now?”
I explained, briefly. She was mortified. “We have to leave. Come on.”
We were about to move toward the door when I saw a man in a shirt and tie gesturing to me from the greeting station. Beside him stood the server I’d talked with.
Every molecule in my body was screaming “RUN FOR THE DOOR!” But for some reason, I grabbed my date’s arm and walked forward to meet him. I whispered a quick prayer: “Please God Almighty if you love me don’t let this man speak Russian.” Then, as an afterthought: “And don’t let him hate Commies.”
He introduced himself as the manager, and smiled at us. “Come this way, please,” he said.
My date shot me a quick look, which I understood perfectly - If we’re in trouble, I am never going out with you again.
Fortunately for us, that wasn’t the case. The manager escorted us to a table – moving us ahead of all the other honest people in the lobby who were waiting patiently for the tables they had legitimately reserved – and seated us himself, then welcomed us to the restaurant. He said it was a pleasure to have someone from another country dining with them, and to let him know if we needed anything at all. The server was standing there as well, and she echoed him – tell her if she could do anything to make our dining experience better. I said “Spasibo,” and then repeated “thank you” in my “Russian” accent. Except for “da” for yes and “nyet” for no, that was the extent of my Russian vocabulary. They left to let us look over the menu.
My date had gone from worried to happy in a matter of moments. I, on the other hand, was even more nervous now than I’d been before. I’d tricked the manager of a fine dining establishment (well, relatively fine) and he’d seated me ahead of all the other people who were waiting for a table. Surely there must be some sort of law against this. It was only a matter of time before they realized I wasn’t from Vladivostok and arrested me. I could just imagine the scene in a Birmingham jail that evening:
Large biker dude: Stupid pigs … got me for ripping apart a Taco Bell with my gang. What’re you in for?
Me: Impersonating a Soviet exchange student.
Large biker dude: You’re a COMMIE? Only thing I hate worse’n Taco Bell’s a Commie.
So my date was living the high life, laughing and talking and impressed that I’d managed to get us seated in front of all those folks without waiting. I was picturing myself being pummeled by a group of Hell’s Angels in a jail cell and then being deported back to the Soviet Union, even though I wasn’t from there.
Whenever the server came back to the table (which she did VERY often), I’d do my best to speak with a Russian accent. Thankfully, she knew even less about the Soviet Union than I did, and didn’t ask me any questions I couldn’t make up a plausible-sounding answer to (Her: “What’s the biggest difference between where you live and here?” Me: “Is very hot here. No snow. Food is much better here.” She beamed at that last one.).
When the bill came, the manager brought it himself. We’d gone the whole meal and I thought I’d managed to pull off the deception, but the sight of him made me break out in a sweat again. Surely by now he’d realized I was some hick kid from Alabama who didn’t know his Vladivostok from a hole in the ground.
He put the little faux leather bill-holder thingy on the table, and said, “I hope you enjoyed your meal. I took the liberty of comping it; I hope you don’t mind. Please come visit us again, with my compliments.” And he bowed – he BOWED – and left the table.
I checked the bill, and sure enough – he’d written “Paid in full” across it, and signed it with a flourish. My date said, “Wow! Since you didn’t have to spend any money on dinner, let’s go hit the mall real quick! You can buy me something before the play.”
I left a very generous tip, and all but ran out of the restaurant. The server called “Thank you, Mr. Romanoff!” as we left.
And it occurs to me, decades later, that this incident might be what caused Red Lobster to begin its downward spiral. Not necessarily the free meal itself, although my date had gotten the snow crab leg upgrade to her Admiral’s Feast, and the overall bill was probably about fifty bucks total, so I wasn’t going to argue about getting it comped – I might have been Russian, but I wasn’t stupid. No, it was probably the goodwill that Red Lobster must have lost among all the honest patrons that night. Knowing that a Godless Commie had been given preference over them in the seating order. If they somehow learned that the meal was comped by the manager, that would be even worse.
In short, I may have inadvertently caused the collapse of a fine (well, relatively) dining chain. For those of you who love Red Lobster, let me say from the heart: Izvinitye.
