What are your biggest restaurant complaints?

The BBQ Pit
261

Again.

I knew the meat was there. I bought, prepared and ate the meat. I love meat. I missed meat during the time I wasn’t eating it.

I don’t know why I got stomach cramps and diarrhea. I will have you know, however, the problem was not in my head. The problem was in my digestive system. I don’t know where you get diarrhea, but I don’t get it in my head.

I am not saying that militant vegetarians don’t get psychologically sick if they think they have eaten meat. I don’t know if they do or not. I am not a vegetarian, militant or otherwise. I am an omnivore.

So please don’t tell me a 12-hour case of diarrhea was in my head.

262

This is pretty much my experience, too. I don’t even mind waiting for long periods of time. If I don’t have the time to wait, I’ll go someplace I know will serve me quickly. The only time I have ever been angry enough at a restaurant to not leave a tip was when the waitress there regularly and consistently got my order wrong. It was a very small Mexican restaurant with the same 3-4 people on staff. I loved the food there, but the red sauce they put on their burritos was seriously unappealing to me. I always asked for it without it. I always got it. I always had to send the burrito back. I loved the burrito so much, I just didn’t want the damned red sauce! And we ate there at least once a week.

My husband will never, ever complain about anything, ever. Last Saturday, we went to the Paradise Bakery for lunch, and I ordered a tuna sandwich. He got the club. Since the sandwiches are large, we split them between us, so we each get a half. He bit into his half of the tuna salad, grimaced, and immediately began picking stuff out of his mouth. I asked him what was going on, and he showed me a giant freaking bone! It was the diameter of a nickel and pretty thick. He lost his appetite immediately, and some of it broke apart in his mouth. I told him to complain. He refused. He didn’t want to make a big thing of it. But this bone thing was, well, huge. So I took the bone and what remained of the sandwich and went up to the counter and had the following exchange:

Me: Hi. I just wanted to let you know there seems to be a bone or something in the tuna. It’s kinda weird, maybe you should look through the rest of the batch.
Manager: Oh my god! I’m so sorry.
Me: Oh, it’s fine. Nobody was hurt. (I handed over the plate). Here you go.
Manager: I am really, really sorry. This has never happened before.
Me: I know. We eat here all the time. It’s no big.
Manager: I’m going to talk to my supplier about this because this shouldn’t happen!
Me: Okay. Cool.
Manager: What did you order? I’m going to get your money back.

So I told her, and a few minutes later she came to the table with the whole bill, as well as coupons for free sandwiches in the future…

263

I offered other ideas for physical illness for those who arent psyching themselves out. Maybe you got some skanky meat. I’m just trying to talk about protein digestion. Your 12 hour diarrhea sounds like a personal problem

264

Hey, that sounds pretty tasty.

:eek: You don’t like mayonnaise? Holy shit man, what’s wrong with you? I fucking bathe in mayonnaise. I like to eat a big bowl of it with a spoon for dessert, like it’s fucking egg-yolk-and-vinegar ice cream. How can you not like mayonnaise? Have you tried it mixed with a little Bacon Salt?

Seriously though, that must be a pain in the ass. It seems like everything comes with mayonnaise on it these days. Sometimes they might call it aioli, or even just “sauce”. You must have to be on your guard. And if they put it on by mistake, you can’t really scrape it off, can you?

265

I meant to comment on this before.

One time Mr. S and I went to a Mexican place that we don’t visit very often. It was a Friday or Saturday night, pretty busy, but we had nowhere to be, as dinner was pretty much our only plan for the evening. The waitress took our order and brought us some chips and salsa. After a while she said it would be a while for our food, as they were having some trouble in the kitchen (some people out sick, some who’d quit, etc., so they were very shorthanded); could she bring us anything else wile we waited? And then she kept us well stocked with drinks, chips, and salsa. We could see that the other servers looked pretty harried. Finally our food came after a long wait (but not absurdly long). We ate, left a large tip, and stopped at the hostess station to compliment them on a bad situation well handled: the waitress letting us know what was going on, checking on us often, and keeping us supplied while we waited.

The hostess was floored. She said all the other customer comments she had gotten that night were complaints. We said we had both worked in restaurants before, and just keeping us informed (so we could have gone somewhere else if we were in a hurry) and making sure we had drinks and snacks went a LONG way.

And ditto on “I’ll be with you in just a minute” going a long way toward keeping us waiting patiently to be seated, rather than being flatly ignored until somebody bothers to make eye contact. Ignore us and we (and our money) WILL go away.

266

Just out of curiosity, were you a cook? Because in my experience, cooks tend to be some of the most forgiving customers when they eat in somebody else’s restaurant (I’ve sent something back to the kitchen exactly once, and then only because the gravy tasted like somebody had melted styrofoam in it). Servers, on the other hand, seem to be some of the worst restaurant customers. They all believe that they personally provide perfect service to their own customers, and so they demand the same level of service that they perceive they themselves give. I was working in a small diner a few years ago, and for Christmas one year the boss took the whole crew out for a nice dinner at a local, moderately upscale place. The other cooks and I sat there in silent embarrassment as our own waitresses demanded this, demanded that, repeatedly sent things back to the kitchen, and made things miserable for the staff that was serving us.

Another time, I was the graveyard cook at one of those 24-hour places. A woman came in at 2:30 AM and ordered a T-bone steak “to go”. I cooked it, boxed it, and sent it out. She opened the box, inspected the steak, and sent it back, saying it was overcooked. So I cooked a new steak and sent it out. She sent this one back, too. While I was cooking yet another T-bone for her, she stood where she could see me and launched into a tirade that concluded with “I’m a waitress at <popular local steakhouse>, and I know how a steak should be cooked!” I suppressed the urge to walk out front and cram her steak down her throat, and instead let my own waitress inform her that I spent three years as a fucking cook at <popular local steakhouse>, and in fact that is where I learned how to cook a fucking steak.

Indeed. I’ve said for years that the single most difficult thing for a breakfast cook to prepare is dry toast, because it’s pure reflex. You grab the toast with one hand while simultaneously grabbing the butter knife with the other, and you spread the butter as the toast is landing on the cutting board. They you say, “oops!”

I recently walked out of a local bar, and won’t go back again, for just this reason. I walked in and sat down at the bar, took a $20 bill out of my wallet, and held it in my hand in plain sight. The bartender looked in my direction several times, but otherwise completely ignored me. Not even a “be right with you.” I waited for 15 minutes, and then put my money back in my wallet and left. I later learned that the bartender was also the owner of the place. :confused:

267

Yep.

268

You can try, my friend, you can try.

But as the years grind on like pitiless millstones, one sunless day you find your spirit so broken that you simply capitulate and accept that you’re an aberration, a castaway born to suffer a life of anguish in a mayonnaise-loving world. So you huddle in a booth in Blimpie’s darkest available corner and choke down your sodden, dripping sandwich as valiantly as you can, praying nobody notices your jaw quivering as you struggle against your gag reflex and the threat of tears.

269

My complaints, two of which I’m mildly surprised no one else has bitched about yet:

  1. If you advertise as a family restaurant, have some high-chairs and booster seats. A certain Italian place in Ocean City, MD told me, “Oh, we have a high chair, but it’s being used.” Huh? One high chair, for a restaurant on the boardwalk that seats a couple hundred people? Their food sucked too, so it isn’t as if we’ll be going back. But honestly, wouldn’t you rather have my two little ones contained in high-chairs, instead of crawling under the tables and annoying other patrons?

  2. Three times in the past year I’ve been asked how I’d like fish or chicken cooked. When I was puzzled, the servers impatiently explained, “Rare, medium rare, medium, well-done?” Rare chicken? That can’t be good, nor can rare fish.

  3. Some of the people with whom I’m forced to dine. “I want the crabcakes, but with no crab, and no sauce, and on white Wonder bread.” Or, “I want the Caesar salad, but with no dressing, and no little bread cubes.” I’m just waiting to hear, “I want the fish, but instead make it beef, and the broccoli, but make it a potato.” It’s a wonder my eyes haven’t rolled out of my head. But they’re family, so I have to tolerate it. I always feel bad for the servers who have to put up with them.

270

A lot of fish is ideally prepared rare or raw. Cooking something like a tuna steak to temperature is SOP (medium rare is best).

Rare poultry is less common but not unheard of. Game birds are often cooked medium rare and some Asian places serve chicken sashimi (raw). Slamonella is caused by birds being penned up in close quarters and ingesting each other’s feces. Wild birds or free range birds have little to no risk of salmonella. Wild turkeys or free range chickens are probably pretty safe to eat at less than medium temperatures, although it may not be that appetizing.

271

Sure, and I’m familiar with much of that. But at Applebee’s? Or Red Lobster? Or Shoney’s?

272

I haven’t read every post in this thread, so I don’t know if anyone’s mentioned the crouching waitstaffers. You know, the ones who hunker down on their honkers when they talk with you? I really wish they’d not do that.

I guess it fits into the false conviviality of some of the nicer places. You know: those places where they could wear actual aprons, but instead they tie white linen tablecloths around their waists to add authenticity.

I fondly recall a gabby Vietnamese cook/waitress who came to my table to brag about how much effort she put into her pho, or the fry-cook outside Reno who was as proud of the insults he served his customers as he was his hashbrowns, but I don’t like the yuppie “hasn’t everyone spent at least one summer eating their way across Tuscany?” franchises with the Pan-Am smilers who seem like they’ve been indoctrinated at corporate seminars in upscale pallsiness.

273

I just thought of something that actually does kind of bug me, but maybe it’s just me. I always find it kind of offputting when a server takes the orders without writing anything down. It makes me nervous. Even if they don’t make any mistakes it still seems like a high wire act. I would just feel more comfortable if they wrote it down. I don’t understand the point of that. Why unsettle the customers like that?

Also I don’t like a lot of tableside service with pepper being ground onto the food for me or chocolate being shaved onto a dessert or whatever. I don’t enjoy that.

274

?? Doesn’t your boyfriend know what you drink? I don’t drink the same thing all the time, so if I make a potty run before we order, I let my husband know what I want to drink…and usually what I want to eat, too, if I know. And I let the server know that my husband will want sweet tea, unless he tells me otherwise. He usually doesn’t know what he wants, and has to agonize over the menu for a few minutes.

Let me just chime in on the NOISY RESTAURANTS. Sometimes, the problem is that the Muzak is on too high. Sometimes, it’s the acoustics (and I’ve been told that some restaurants deliberately have bad acoustics). Sometimes it’s the kiddie soccer team, or the adult soccer team. Fortunately for me, Fort Worth has a variety of restaurants that don’t abuse my eardrums, so if a place is consistently noisy, I just avoid it. It’s one thing if the music’s too loud one time, but quite another if the volume approaches disco level.

275

I don’t like mayonnaise either - I’m not keen on tasteless fat added to my sandwich. I do mostly just scrape it off, though. Light Miracle Whip, however, I quite like, but nobody ever seems to use that. It’s got a tangy zip, you know.

ETA: It isn’t very efficient to go to the bathroom before ordering. After you order, all you’re going to do is sit there and wait anyway, so I’ll always just hold on until the dinner orders are in.

276

It’s not just you, Diogenes; I agree on both points. So it’s probably just we two— but hey, our numbers recently doubled.

I don’t think I’ve ever had an order delivered incorrectly by one of those eidetic-memory waitrons, but it is vaguely unnerving, especially if you’re giving a few special requests. What sort of mnemonic training do they give these Wunderkellner? I feel like I’m talking to an android or Mentat, and somehow that I’m obligated to applaud when everyone’s meal arrives as ordered.

And I also don’t much like the pepper-grinder la-dee-da. Nor do I need my first slice of pizza or helping of rice served to me, nor my beer poured from the pitcher. It’s not that I’m an ingrate— I appreciate the effort you’re making, or more likely being forced to make by your manager for the benefit of bucktoothed vistors from the sticks who get off on that sort of shit— but really, I’m a grown man, and I’m sure there are other customers who really need you for things they can’t get themselves; e.g., their food, from the kitchen.

(Exceptions made for waitresses who are really hot, who are encouraged not just to lade my plate but also sit in my lap and spoon-feed me, if that’s the local custom. And if, off in the background somewhere, some fecal-impacted twit is red-faced and waving his arms like a windmill because he got a slice of unwanted garlic bread, all the better.)

277

I will often ask for Caesar salad without dressing. Why? I like my salads without dressing*, and I prefer romaine to iceberg.

Sometimes I get the Caesar dressing on the side for dipping. (I dip very little of some of the lettuce pieces.)

Another reason is (back when I actually put dressing on my Caesar salads) once at a Macaroni Grill, I ordered a Caesar salad, and the lettuce had been smothered in dressing for a few hours and it was kind of gross. I figured that it was probably pre-made 6 hours prior, and from then on I would always ask for the dressing on the side.
Mayo: Generally, I don’t like it. Except, I find that I like all of the weirdo flavored ones that I see (chipotle, avocado, what else?). Does anyone know why? I don’t. For those others who don’t like mayo, make an exception once or twice for some crazy-flavored one, and see if you don’t agree.

*Except for the ginger-carrot stuff at Japanese restaurants. At home, I smother my mixed greens with this stuff.

278

I’ve never experienced that but I could definitely see it being a “Hey, that’s cool. I feel all pamp-OK, enough gimme the damn thing.” moment.

279

I also don’t like this. I don’t need you to arrange things for me and hover. Just bring the food. Besides (true confession coming …), this usually happens to me at Italian restaurants with Parmesan cheese, and I usually get embarrassed and tell them to stop before there’s actually enough cheese on there for me. Can’t you just leave the cheese on the table and leave me to clog my arteries in peace?

280

Maybe they are going for “Easy Rider” toast. :stuck_out_tongue: