The assistant general manager at a restaurant in Old Town was on another one this afternoon. My buddy Brandon and I were there for lunch, and when we walked in, he was on the phone trying to negotiate a reservation situation for Sunday. It seemed pretty heated—I think the negotiations in Gaza are going better.
I was happy to stand there patiently while he explained for the 1400th time that it was too busy for the restaurant to accommodate a party of more than 12, but the couple who came in right behind Brandon and me seemed to be in a hurry. They waited for a beat and then turned around.
“Hi!” the harried AGM called out to them, but it was too late.
Either he felt bad about snubbing us earlier or he was just a generally anxious dude, because later, he visited our table three times to check on us.
“How is everything here?” he asked.
I’m all for good customer service, and having a manager check in with guests is a nice touch. But even the first time, he lingered a bit too long–probably because at the time Brandon and I were the only two people in the restaurant.
The second time I thought was fine. A little aggressive maybe, but okay. But the third time, after Brandon and I had eaten our appetizers, I was put off.
How many ways can you say “thanks, we’re okay” before it gets weird?
Assistant GM Clammy Hands must’ve been at a loss too, because he fumbled for a second before asking about our crab dip, which the runner had doused in oil and lit on fire with a red Bic.
“So uh, how did you enjoy the crab dip?” he asked. “Was it…FLAMIN’ good?”
The only thing flamin’ in here is you, pal. Take a flamin’ hike.
I Don't Belong Here. 