Great Service and the Lack Thereof

Those of you who have been loyally slogging through my blogging know that food is my love, my life, my passion.  Indulging in this edible sport is fraught with the specter of pants splitting open at the seat while bending over and/or projectile buttons flying off a way too tight shirt, no doubt putting someone's eye out in the process.  Therefore, I dutifully log plenty of gym time to compensate for my gluttony.

Yesterday I whipped through my weights routine and whirled through thirty-five minutes on the elliptical monster while listening to the soundtrack of Les Miserables.  (This was unintentional irony.)  Soaking wet, I staggered breathlessly to the locker room, peeled off my disgusting gym wear and headed to the shower.  There was no water running in the first one, so I literally nakedly searched for one that was working until it dawned on me that there was no water to be had anywhere.  I yanked my shirt and jeans over my sweaty, heat rashed (yet chiseled) body and headed to the front desk to report the problem.

The pretty college-aged girl at the desk looked up at me as I approached.  When she didn't say "Can I help you?" or even the more terse "Yes?" I realized that she had slightly raised one eyebrow which clearly was to communicate that if I had something to say I'd better spit it out so she could get back to her Us Weekly (the celebutante magazine with more pictures than words.) I asked "has anyone reported..." when she interrupted me and said "no water?" Yeah, there's a work order." I said "thank you" to which she replied "no problem."  Really?  It was no problem that I was sweating so heavily through my clothing that a large puddle had formed beneath my feet?  A passing workman noticed it and placed a yellow Caution Wet Floor sign on the floor beside me. One day I shall decode Millennial speak and understand that "no problem" actually means "I am so terribly sorry for your inconvenience I could just cry, Sir."  (Man, do I sound grumpy or what.)

Fast forward several hours.  Two of my favorite people, A and E, were in town to visit my most favorite person, P, and the five of us decided to meet for dinner at DISH, a trendy, scenester place with delicious, playful food and a smart and sexy ambience.  I used Open Table to make a reservation for  5 at 7:30, but the earliest they had was 8:45.  I sneakily changed my party size to 4 and voila!  Confirmed at 7:30.  I figured I'd just casually say oh sorry, we had a surprise joiner when I checked in at the hostess stand.  (Kind of underhanded, I know, but that's about as Hell's Angels as I get.)

P and the others were already there at the bar (natch) when we arrived and she said "you made a reservation for 4?  S and B are here too so there are 7 of us!  They said they were working on it" she said skeptically.  I murmured something about no doubt being banished to Siberia (the elevated section to the left where they usually seat people with plastic name tags on lanyards or Ed Hardy tee shirts.)  The Manager hurried over with a pained look and said "Mr. Wood?  You made a reservation for 4 but you're actually 7?" (Sheesh, I thought, first the rude girl at the gym and now I am going to be scolded by a harried Maitre D').  But then a miracle happened.  He smiled (and slightly bowed in a charming, non-obsequious manner) and said "No problem.  Because you are a VIP around here, we will have your table ready in a moment."

What the what?  I'm a VIP?  Since when?  Then I realized that Open Table puts a symbol by your name if you are a frequent diner who uses it a lot.  Smart restaurateurs train their door staff to notice things like that, and also to check the system's guest history.  No doubt the manager saw that I had dined there approximately 6,000,000 times in the past three years.  True to his word, my new BFF returned and led us not to Siberia but to a choice table for 7 with a splendid view of the bustling kitchen.  There was an envelope on the table with my name on it, and inside was a hand written note welcoming me back and thanking me for my patronage signed by the entire DISH team.  While we were ordering drinks, the owner came over and said hello and again, thanked me for returning.  WOW is an understatement.

We scarfed down fried artchoke hearts, calamari and my favorite, shishito peppers (I quietly bogarted most of those while the others were talking.) We had wild forest mushroom soup and clean green salads with Bibb lettuce and Granny Smith apples.  We had melty, savory short ribs, an abundance of crispy, buttermilk fried chicken, the BEST scallops ever, and tasty tenderloin ribeye chili.  The dessert eaters shared some chocolate and toffee concoction which made them moan audibly and yearn for a cigarette in the afterglow.

This morning I got an automated survey from Open Table asking me how my experience was.  I gave DISH 5 stars in every category including food, service, ambience, lighting, location, toilets, seat comfort, and background music.  After I submitted the rave review, I got back a response thanking me for my input.

I happily replied "no problem."