I was here some time ago around 8 pm one evening "dining" alone, tired and hungry from having run errands all day. So, I wanted to wolf down some fajitas while I read my punk rock zine. The owner (Jerry) who greeted me at the door spotted my tee shirt, said, "John Cale!", and proceeded to talk my ear off about his mutual interest in John Cale enroute to my table. For 50 minutes he stood in front of my table talking my head off but since I considered myself a guest in his restaurant I felt it would be impolite to ask him to allow me to eat, yet he stood there monopolizing my time as my food got colder, colder, and colder (he even acknowledged that my food was cold,...but he didn t do anything about it...whether it was allowing me to eat on the house, getting me a hotter meal, or, short of all that, having it zapped in the microwave:O). He insisted over and over again that I leave my phone number with him at the desk (which I did) because he said that he wanted to give me a tour of his friend s recording studio. I thought that, despite the fact that this evening was not very pleasant (the food was ruined...by the time he stopped talking, the cheese and beans had congealed to the point that they resembled some of Picasso's later works), I was sufficiently touched enough at this kind gesture of showing me a record studio that it represented a silver lining.
(In the meantime, I myself forgot to tip my waitress that evening (the owner was talking constantly, causing me to lose my train of thought), so the following day I put my receipt/waitress i.d. code and 20 percent of my bill into an envelope with a note apologizing for forgetting her tip (as I said, the service was deplorable and the food was cold and soggy, but as someone who has worked working class jobs throughout his entire life, I am empathetic enough to tip all servers because their wages are often horrible). My tip certainly didn't reflect the quality of service: her attractive smile and eyes were more focused on the cold dilapidated pile of once-food; her indifference to my cold ruined meal mirroring her boss's. So, on TOP OF EVERYTHING that transpired that evening, my waitress was more captivated by a pile of hardened slop as opposed to me? I am being bested in my race to model status by a cold plate of Mexican food!!! Oh, my!!! Was it the very non-pop t shirt I was wearing, or the hard core punk rock zine cover on my table?? MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA!!!! But I digress.)
Although this evening was a culinary disaster, human relations nightmare; the experience was a fascinating one. The series of comical gaffes on the part of this restaurant was surreal to take in; not unlike witnessing a train wreck in ultra-slow motion in which I am chained to the front of a train as it descends off of a cliff. Several months after the fact, I have never heard back from the owner nor anyone. I will never eat at this place again.
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