Since I am not a food critic, I won’t mention the name of the restaurant, but you would recognize it while walking around downtown Williamsburg as the place with The Trellis motif. We enter through a pleasant foyer and we are met by a smiling hostess. She noted, right away, that one of our party appeared to be looking for someone and almost immediately guided us to a table in back where a couple of people from our group were already seated. Seven of us at a table set up for 8. The restaurant is bustling, but by no means jam-packed. Our table is situated where we have a clear view into the kitchen through large plate glass windows. The menu is two pages, tastefully arranged and covered in plastic. Left page looks like a fine-dining wine cellar. Right page lists appetizers, sandwiches and a few culinary masterpieces. A little on the higher end of pricing, but expected in a tourist trap town and considering the eclectic contents of the individual food items. The table is set with cloth napkins and has the air of slightly higher than chain-restaurant, slightly lower than fine-dining. In other words, pleasant and everything is going well, so far.
One of our group is extremely allergic to onions. Now, I personally don’t have any food allergies, just likes and dislikes. However, working with this colleague for several years has taught me that food allergies can be very serious and life-threatening. Whenever we have a pot luck company function, my wife will make two versions of potato salad – one wit’ and one wit’out; two versions of chicken salad - one wit’ and one wit’out; or two versions of peachy bacon-y baked beans – again, one wit’ and one wit’out.
My colleague notes that almost every sandwich is made with onion in one form or fashion or another. There’s at least onion, sweet onion or caramelized onion on or in just about everything. This is when things start to go awry. We are all taken aback when the server informed us that none of the menu items could be prepared without the onion because they are all prepared in advance.
Whoa! What? How can any establishment be so secure in the tourist trade that they can afford to be so smug and obnoxious? Oh. Wait. It doesn’t matter if you don’t accommodate them – they’re never coming back again. Next time they go on vacation they won’t be coming to Williamsburg, they will be headed for Florida or the Grand Canyon. It’s OK to stick it to the tourists. And no, we don’t need to accommodate a person’s allergies. Drink water. Eat bread. Pay. Leave and open up the table for the next unsuspecting tourist wallet.
Here’s why I say unsuspecting tourist wallet. Obviously, the next step, I take the lead and ask to speak to the Manager. He immediately informed us that the onions cannot be removed because, now get this, “the sandwiches were pre-made this morning.”
Wait. What? Hold on a sec. 7-11 sells sandwiches made this morning. Wal-Mart sells sandwiches made this morning. Now fine-dining wannabe restaurants that have a hostess, several servers, bus-people, line cooks and a chef sell sandwiches that were pre-made this morning? “Because our sandwiches are so layered and complex that that is the only way to serve so many.” Meaning that the kitchen staff is nothing more than expediters of hours-old food? “We could take the onion off a sandwich for you.” And leave all those wonderfully aromatic and lethal onion juices behind all over everything?
Whoa. What? You can’t, for the sake of a customer with food allergies, customize a sandwich? How arrogant! What about this Caesar salad? Does it have onions? “Well, no.” Aha. My colleague finds something on the menu to order. But then the Manager tells us that the tomato had to be eliminated from the salad because the tomatoes are marinated in a juice that has onions in it.” Oh, my! Since when does Caesar Salad have tomatoes?
Finally, it’s my turn to order. Since I don’t want a sandwich that is already several hours old, I ask if the hamburger, at least, is cooked to order. Assured that it is, I order the hamburger and fries with the special “restaurant” burger sauce (um, Thousand Island dressing, I’m told. Thanks, I wouldn’t want the chef to have to exert any energy for the lunch crowd). It comes with lettuce, tomato, onion, high-end American cheese and fries. I’ll take that medium-well, please, and hold the onion. The fries actually turn out to be quite good. Thin, typical shoestring fries, but not smooth, so they hold the salt really well. But, imagine my surprise when my burger is delivered, sans onion, wit’ a fresh and un-marinated slice of very ripe tomato.
Since I really don’t care if the burger has tomato I offer it to my lunch-mate who graciously turns it down and now that lonely slice of tomato is wasting away on my plate. I start to call the Manager again, but my colleague is so totally frustrated that they don’t want to bother (or I’m a total embarrassment for wanting to get our money’s worth). So I let it go.
Then, two bites into the burger, there is something actually crunching between my teeth. Nope, it’s not the bread. It isn’t onion, or lettuce, or tomato. I only have bread, burger, cheese and restaurant special Thousand Island dressing sauce. Nothing there that I’ve ever experienced as crunchy. Third bite, and again I’m cracking teeth. Is it bone or cartilage? I don’t know, but I’m not eating any more of it. The server gives me an exasperated look when I try to explain it, so I just tell her to give the plate to the Manager and tell him I won’t be able to eat it. She tells me she will get the Manager and “I’m sorry you cannot be happy about anything today.”
Whoa! What? I was extremely happy when I arrived, and I’ve already been up for several hours. I’ve actually been happy for most of that time (although I’ve been warned that if I’m consistently happy for too long it may be a sign of mental disturbance, almost as serious as depression). I was not unhappy until I came for lunch. In order to save my lunch-mates from further embarrassment due to my actions, I wait for the Manager in a quiet secluded area of the establishment (the bar area).
When the Manager finally deigns to meet with me, my lunch plate in hand, I explain that I don’t like having my intelligence insulted, I don’t appreciate snippety wait staff and I especially don’t like being lied to. The Manager insists that no one is trying to insult my intelligence, indicates that he doesn’t really care if my feelings are hurt by remarks from the wait staff and tells me that he never lied. He’s zero for three at this point. He certainly isn’t easing any of my frustration.
Then it gets even weirder as he goes zero for four! I tell him that in order to assure him of my sincerity about the burger, I’ll pay – I certainly don’t want the restaurant to suffer! NOT! Then he says “Well, I certainly don’t want you to pay for it IF you are not happy with the food.” There’s that word, “happy”, again. What is this, a road act? I explain that since he is standing there holding an almost complete food order that I am refusing to ingest for fear of my teeth, if not my life, that there “is no if” as to whether or not I am happy with the food. As he stutters some more, I say thank you and walk back to join my group.
Fortunately, not everyone had a terrible experience and we returned to our meeting for the afternoon session. Thank goodness there were energy bars and bottled water in the reception area. Ahhhhh. The expected crunch of granola and the satisfying taste of the peanut butter bar, the creamy richness of the dark chocolate oat bar and one bottle of cool, satisfying H2O and I’m good until dinner.
Whoa! What? Maybe I AM a food critic after all!
