There’s an element of a GQ to this, but I wanted to bitch about it too so I put it here.
My family goes out for dinner on the holiday weekend to a decent restaurant and everyone orders a salad to start. We ask for Italian, ranch, French dressing… but oh no! Nope, can’t have any of those! “We only have balsamic vinagrette dressing!” says the serving-wench.
Yeah? Well, take your balsamic vinagrette dressing, stand on your head, and pour it in your ass!
Then a few months ago I was at an Outback. A STEAK HOUSE, for the love of Christ, and what salad dressings do they have? Oil and vinegar! No French, no Italian, just oil and vinegar and I think they offered me ranch, too.
Now, if I’m at Le Plume de ma Tante Cuisine Snobbe, I sort of expect overpriced salads with no salad dressing. But I’m getting pretty fucking sick of regular restaurants that can’t even keep a fucking bottle of Kraft Thousand Islands on hand. How hard is that? EVERY party that comes in and orders a salad asks for a real dressing. Oil and vinegar isn’t salad dressing, they’re the ingredients of salad dressing. If I wanted to make my own goddamned toppings I’d have stayed at home. What’s next? “No, sir, we don’t have ice cream, but I’ll bring you a cow, a churn, and a bucket of ice.”
[GQ element] Why in the name of God do restaurants do this? [/GQ element] Well, here’s my NSWAG guess; because they’re so fucking cheap they decide to make do with random vinegar and greases they tossed together in a five-gallon bucket (that’s what “Balsamic vinagrette” is) because the evil bastards don’t offer any culinary alternative to a salad. See, if you don’t like the chicken wings you can always get potato skins, but if you want a light, green appetizer, they stick you with the fucking salad and offer nothing else, and so you have no choice but to accept the Random Dressing Concoction.
Well, the hell with that. I am standing up for my rights! The next time I’m in some restaurant that won’t offer me a real salad dressing I’m asking for the manager and telling her/him s/he is running a shitwad place and I’m yelling “Rat!” if they don’t bring me some French dressing.