What Do You Say?

Here's the thing: I know that my manners could be better, but I like to think that I'm both a relatively polite person and a low-maintenance restaurant customer. My family and closer friends may hoot with laughter at the first, but I don't think I'd get much argument on the second. I usually order from the menu without substitution, and I ask questions to make me confident that I'm ordering something that will be suitable for me. I say “please” and “thank you.” I don’t pick fights with strangers, and I don’t like to make a fuss in public. I’d rather let small errors – the wrong kind of toast appears at breakfast, for example - slide by than bring them (and myself, by extension) to anyone’s attention. The little things don’t matter all that much to me.

When things go more seriously awry in restaurants, I have no problem pointing out my concern and giving the staff a chance to correct anything unfortunate - whether it's a dirty fork tine despite its presumed sojourn in the dishwasher, or an order that is simply incorrect. You know, when you order the rabbit pasta with mushrooms and end up with the tuna. I have long held the view that it is not the mistake that defines the service and product of a restaurant – although frequency of error can be a factor – but that if a mistake happens (when, really, as these things are bound to happen to us all) it is how it is handled that speaks to the professionalism of the staff and management (if it gets to that level). I do not nitpick, I do not expect discounts or freebies for complaining, and if offered them I tend to be mortified that they might think that I was complaining in order to get cheap/free food. I don't downgrade the server's tip when the kitchen makes a mistake.

No, my problem is this: What on earth do you say when the server comes by and chirps "How are you enjoying your meal?" or "Is everything okay, here?" Nine times out of ten, or perhaps it is even nine-point-five times out of ten, the answer is "Yes, fine, thank you," or variations on the same. This is especially problematic for me at breakfast / brunch, because I have fairly middling expectations to begin with, from that meal in most restaurants. It doesn’t take much to make me happy with my meal, so I’d like something as simple as eggs and sausage to be at least as good as I can manage with supermarket ingredients and in a sleepy, early-morning state of inattention. That’s just fine with me.

But what if it isn't fine? What if your order is technically correct, but you're depressed at what they call an omelette - eggs with virtually no flavour, and cheese so bland that you can't determine what variety it is supposed to be. Potatoes that are way too salty. The hollandaise comes from a bag, and yet tastes oddly metallic. The "Italian" sausage has no discernable Italian qualities or passing acquaintance with herbs or spices whatsoever. What if it’s all so bland that if you close your eyes, the hash browns and eggs are indistinguishable from each other? It certainly isn't fine, but it's not really something you can really get them to correct.

Naturally, you are already crossing this new place off of your brunch list, but when the server comes by and chirps at you, what do you say? Do you simply say, "Fine, thanks," control the eye-rolling and/or shudder and simply never go back? It's not fine. You're paying money for a product that is edible but unsatisfying, but correcting the situation starts with who supplies the eggs and sausage and ends with smacking the bag o' weirdly metallic, artificial-tasting hollandaise over the head of whoever thought that this was good enough to serve their customers at the prices they are charging. Isn't it fundamentally dishonest to say that everything is okay? To pretend any sort of satisfaction with cut-rate materials, indifferently prepared? Did I mention that the omelette looked like a frittata that had a hangover?

At the same time, I am not comfortable with saying these things to the server - even when couched more tactfully. It sets up a confrontational situation where the server cannot fix the problem for you - other than perhaps to offer some sort of discount, which is not the point of the exercise at all. Not to mention, I'm really not confrontational by nature, and dread being someone who sets up an uncomfortable situation.

I know that this restaurant (yep, that was for a recent brunch out - two plates, zero satisfaction) will not suffer for customers who cannot tell the difference between good food and bad - the neighbourhood is full of restaurants with a bewildering popularity despite food on the low side of mediocre. I know that they will not suddenly start making fresh hollandaise from scratch, despite the fact that they clearly have all of the ingredients on hand. I know that if no one tells them that anything is wrong they have no reason to change, but I also know that if I (or we, to be fair) are the only ones complaining, we'll just be considered the picky/snooty wackos and they'll be quite happy not to see us return.

Part of the problem is that there are so many wonderful places that I can go to, for brunch. For only a dollar or two more than the brunch I had that weekend, I could have gone to Bistro Pastis, or Feenie's or a number of other favourite haunts, and had superior - not just adequate, but often outstanding - food. For a couple of dollars less - the five-dollar basic eggs plate at Incendio comes with your choice of a variety of sausages – including good chorizo and even duck sausage, for crying out loud, at no extra charge.

It’s not only this one restaurant, though, and it’s not just breakfast. It’s endemic in the dining experience. I am learning, slowly, not to order anything “benedict” in most places, unless I have proof positive that they make their hollandaise on the premises. It really doesn’t need to be any other way: concerned about food poisoning? Check out Alton Brown’s hollandaise containment plan: keep it hot, emulsified, and germ-free in a thermal carafe. Other restaurants have thrown out the pretense of hollandaise in favour of a cheese sauce – something that astute breakfasters notice on the menu and choose to order it (or not) based on this information, and less discerning customers neither notice nor care nor, I suspect, can tell the difference.

There are times, of course, when the server does deserve a certain amount of confrontation over breakfast woes: if the server assures me that it is a house-made hollandaise when it is obviously not, he (or she) deserves to hear about it, no matter what the manager or cook has told him to say. Having eaten enough lousy benedicts in a wide range of restaurants and cafés, I feel confident in saying that one certainly should simply steer away from the whole benny family unless you know exactly what you’re getting, or have a reasonable expectation of the real deal showing up on your plate. Sneaking a peak at the plates of nearby tables often affords all the data that you need: the look of real, fresh hollandaise is inimitable. As, to the detriment of many breakfast joints, is the flavour.

What to do? Barring a serious transgression, correctable error, or outright lie, I remain for the most part silent. I don’t want to throw down with the server over an indifferently prepared breakfast. So, what then is the appropriate action? Writing a letter to the owner? It seems like a lot of effort to go to for an unpredictable reception. Am I under obligation to let them know that they have not met the requirements of even a simple greasy spoon, or do I just let popular opinion be the jury? The problem with popular opinion, of course, is that it allows such travesties as the long line-ups in the rain at a certain local eatery that certainly doesn’t deliver anything worth the standing around, let alone the getting wet. Is it as much a part of the unspoken contract that I be forthright about my disappointment with their product, or do I simply vote with my dollars, as I have been doing, and go elsewhere? Chalk the expense down to the cost of the knowledge that a particular restaurant doesn’t know what it’s doing?

What do you do?

November 2005