This story takes place MANY years ago, My then-boyfriend has taken me out to dinner for my birthday. We have gone to a place called Old Port Harbor on Cayuga Lake in Ithaca, New York. We accidentally wander in the door marked in French “the kitchen” (very similar to “the food”) and a guy says “you want the entrance to the dining room, it’s around THERE” pointing it out.
So get seated and the VERY same guy shows up as our waiter, But now he has acquired a truly bad Fransh OCC-sont. After he presents us with our menus, we learn the fascinating truth–at Old Port Harbor, you get to grill your own steak on a large centrally located grill. So, realizing that for my birthday I get to cook dinner again, I order the filet mignon (I really like filet mignon.) The way this deal works is the waiter shows up and hands you–the designated stand-in for the chef–a tray with the uncooked steak. ((By the way, the economic benefits to the restaurant of merely needing someone who can supply sides, salads, and desserts, as opposed to someone who can actually cook, are extremely high.)
Remember the joke that goes–
Waiter: How did you find your steak, madam?
Customer: No problem. I just picked up my lettuce leaf and there it was.
That defines the size of my pathetically tiny filet. (Yes I know we’re not looking for something in the 20-oz T-bone range here…)
So after I return to the table, somewhat sweaty–and of course, having missed any sparkling conversation with my date while I flipped steaks, our baked potatoes have been delivered. But not any butter for them.
(You can tell this is before I had to worry about cholesterol…)
After fifteen minutes of trying, we flag down our Fransh waiter as he passes and ask for butter. His accent is mysteriously missing as he snaps, “Yeah, yeah, in a minute!” Which turns out to be another five, by which time the potato is pretty close to stone cold.
We have similar problems with ordering dessert. Getting dessert. Getting the check. My boyfriend finally takes the check to the register to pay it after deciding that the waiter must have DIED.
By mutual agreement, we leave absolutely nothing as a tip.
We are in the parking lot, getting into our car, when suddenly our waiter appears.
“Do you realize you forgot to leave me a tip?!?”
It was with great pleasure that we informed him that a tip is given for good service, a small tip is given for adequate service, and no tip is given for bad service–especially bad service with a bad accent.