Don't Be This Guy, Please.

 
Restaurant etiquette may not be universal, but the version of it I grew up on is well known and practiced in many nations and cultures, including Great Britan.

So, The Man and I are weekending in Budapest. I don't take pictures of famous things in cities anymore. All those things have much better pictures on the internet. I take pictures of smaller things I see. Mostly. This post    will have some of them.

I was interested to note that four deployments to war zones really does affect one's, well, affect. The Terror Haza did not phase him much. I however, have now been there twice, and being thus far a war-virgin --thank all the gods--, ... I'm not going back in. Sorry future visitors to my world, I'll be drinking a limonade with gin over at Karma. I'll be easy to find, and Just Far Enough Away from That.

But, we also wandered in the park, took in some art, went to the Great Synagogue,, did Budapest-y things. And then, we went to dinner at this little French joint in the old city of Pest, Gerloczy Cafe and Rooms deLux (where I hope to stay next time!! Swank at the price!). I mean, come on!, an excellent breakfast is In The Cafe Downstairs. Yes, please. And, it's the sort of place that serves good duck and good mackerel while projecting a pretty beach scene from the Normandy coast onto the wall opposite. There were little fairy lights and upside-down growing plants in special upside-down pots hanging in the tree over the spacious patio. It was completely charming in it's somewhat neglected Hungarian way. Good eye, The Man.

It was Tuesday, a night most restaurants do not expect to get slammed, and this was Gerloczy's unlucky Tuesday. They were all the way in the weeds, completely at sea. Hungarian service is traditionally leisurely, and this was a French joint, so I was doing my service math as HU / F = 45 to 60 min from order to plate. But, it was a longer time than that. Our server was impeccable, precise, efficient, eager for our comfort and happiness. The kitchen, however was overwhelmed. Ok then. Tonight is Slow Night for us and a really nasty Fast Night for the staff. The food was good, not write-to-your-mamma good, but good.

And This Guy. He and his whole family looked pretty peeved even as they were seated. They just had this slightly spiky sort of We Will Not Be Satisfied air about them, and boy were they not satisfied. They ordered, they ate, Mom and Dad and Son and Daughter, all in nearly complete silence ... grimly, you might say. And then, the server came to them and asked, in English as they were Brits, "How was everything?" And This Guy says, "Well, if you had not asked, I would not have to be truthful, but since you asked I will tell you." Notice how This Guy makes the totally undeserved reaming the server is about get all the server's fault. Love him. Oh yes. "The service is slow, the food was barely tepid when it arrived at table," blah, blah, blah, "and the something-he-had should have been just a little softer than al dente." Picky eater much? Flashing some culinary power plays in order to intimidate the server? Tacky, brother, tacky. After a breath, This Guy continues, "I am very disappointed. I see that you have a full house on a Tuesday and very likely the kitchen is overworked and has decided to take short cuts. However, I have emailed with the chef some six months ago as I researched this vacation, and she assured me that ...."

Dude. Shut up. Six months ago? Who are you? ... I mean other than a manipulative git.

Because there's this rule about etiquette in restaurants. If the food is not good, you say so BEFORE you, and I am not kidding in this case, clean your plate of all of it. Not a morsel left. Complain after a bite or two. It's like sniffing the cork and sipping the wine, people. In case the wine has turned, you get a minute to think it over BEFORE you pay for the bottle. Same thing goes for the chow. Complaining after you eat the whole meal is foul play. You are trying to rip the place off. And they succeeded. This decent, charming restaurant gave all four of them some merch, lovely T-shirts and their deepest and sincerest apologies for the inconvenience of ...

Some Bad Luck.

As they rose to saunter grimly off in triumph, the daughter, all of about 14 years old said, "Oh, that's nice. They've given us shirts to mend it."

Nice life lesson there, Dad.

I'm just glad This Guy wasn't an American. I would have had to apologize for him.