I like the food at Granite City Brewery.  I hate their ploy to make me feel special.

I prefer to sit at the bar to eat.  It's faster service.  But, without regard, the bartender is required to reach over the bar, into my personal space and recite a script.  "Hi, my name is _____, what's your name."  I don't want to know him (at all).  And, I more-than-do-not want to shake his phoney hand.  I'm there for food.

Treat me sincerely, I like it.   I'll happily visit with almost anyone.  But don't read me a f**king script, and especially, don't stick your hand in my face without first caring if I care to know you.  (I wasn't looking interested, I promise.) 

Am I always this sensitive?  Maybe.  If I just offended you, humble blog reader, forgive me and stop here. 

Keely, I don't know that you’ve ever read this blog, but just in case - stop here too. 

Jacob really wanted to eat at Hard Rock Cafe while visiting New York City.  It was a good idea, agreeable to everyone. 

Now the place had neat stuff to see, yet it reeked of - how fortunate we, the patrons, were supposed to feel for being there. 

There was a 45-minute wait.  The host checked us in with a nifty system that showed our name on a big screen - the order we'd be seated.  This seemed pretty cool, so I got to noticing the host’s computer screen.  Every table was being watched and timed.  A table icon for each table on the host's computer turned yellow, then it turned red – time to move those people on!  Each table had a countdown time.  Hard Rock smartly seemed to waste no time in how they managed table production. 

A waiter enthusiastically greeted us with a Hard Rock attitude and impressed us by how cool he was.  It was okay.  He took our drink orders and quickly brought back the pop (soda Dad).  He did not bring my beer, and was in a hurry to take the dinner order. 

The table timer girl watched us from above.


Time passed.

More time passed.

Even more time passed.

I tried to flag down the enthusiastic and cool waiter.  I still didn't have my beer, and Adam finished his drink.

We were all tired and hungry.  The waiter spent a LONG time carrying on with an adjacent table, then fast disappeared again.

More time passed.  Other waiters and the girl watching us seemed to ignore what would seem obvious (my waving), so I went to the bar to get my own beer.

Time passed.

I originally bought into the deal of being a compliant, expeditious and valuable guest to Hard Rock.  They successfully had me programmed.  Yet, our table was performing poorly.  Surely our icon turned yellow by now.  No food.  Our drinks were empty.  I wanted another beer, maybe would've had dessert, but we'd already been there an hour and a half.

When Super-Cool brought the food, and only AFTER he brought the food, I quietly told him not to let our drinks go dry again.  (It was at least 20 minutes.)  I get cranky when I'm hungry, tired, and my beer is empty.  The waiter too got mad.  Unapologetically, he snapped, "I’LL TRY!"

Now, he was completely off the how-cool-I-am, and how-fortunate-you-are-to-be-here kick.  He was no longer cool.  He didn't seem to like it either - proof he never was.

The food was okay.

When Lost-His-Cool brought the check, I routinely completed it – including an obligatory (and generous) tip.  Then I noticed it.  He really fucked up.

There was an 18% tip of twenty-some dollars prefigured into the bill.  Lost-His-Cool suddenly lost his tip!  And, I rather enjoyed telling him why.  He flipped out, saying "Forget it man, forget it man!" and stormed off to recalculate the bill.

The manager came out to see me.  He didn't give a shit, just recited some script about how sorry he was about how I "felt".

Hard Rock, you suck.  So do you Granite City, but at least your food is good.

(If you wonder how I have time to write this nonsense, I'm held captive on Southwest Airlines again.)