July 3 Editorial

As a food lover, nothing brings me more joy than spending a night out with friends at a restaurant. That is until that restaurant turns into a perfect storm of bad experiences. This was the case last Saturday when my friends and I decided that dinner at a lively hibachi place sounded like a good idea. Turns out, we should’ve stayed home.
We arrived at 7:30 pm, and although the hibachi tables were mostly empty, we were told there was a wait. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a big deal, but I unfortunately was seated next to a baby who apparently thought that the next county over wanted to hear him screaming for no reason. My ears were literally ringing when I looked to his mother for some sign of frustration. Instead, she giggled and encouraged his horrible behavior. Good luck in the teen year’s lady.
We were finally seated at 8 pm, and I cringed when I realized that junior baby mutant lungs was seated around our table. I knew the only way I was going to get through this was to start drinking, so I waited for the waiter to arrive to take our drink orders. Fifteen minutes later, he was still nowhere to be seen and my blood pressure was on the rise.
The waiter finally arrived at 8:20 pm, and asked everyone for their order. Ten minutes later he returned with a glass of wine for me and a ridiculously large fishbowl drink that looked like cotton candy for the woman next to me. When he reached in to put it on the table, he lost his grip on the glass and showered me with sticky liquor and fruit juice. I jumped to my feet, feeling like I had just taken the “cold water challenge” while he fumbled to pat me down with paper towels.
This was becoming a nightmare.
I sat back down in my chair eager to order my food and get the heck out of there. When the waiter approached the other side of the table (which contained 6 people, 4 teeth, and 2 English speakers), there seemed to be some confusion about what they intended to order. They wanted to share plates, but didn’t want to pay the shared plate fee, scrambled to decide who was having chicken or steak, blah, blah, blah.
I stared at them as if laser beams were going to come out of my eyes and force them to explode. I mean, we had only had 40 minutes at this point to work all of the details out. Get it together people.
When the patriarch of the family laughed and said, “Can you just come back in a minute so we can figure this out,” my husband pinched my leg as if he knew I was about to go New Jersey Housewives on this guy’s behind by flying across the table with rage. Thankfully, the waiter just skipped them and took our order instead. I added, “Can you go ahead and put our order in? We need to be somewhere.” Also, I will cut you.
When the chef came out to prepare our food, the idiots next to us were so fascinated by the sight of rice and vegetables that they felt compelled to take photos of each course and selfies with the chef. The woman next to me said, “I’ve never seen rice like this before.” Where was she from? Neptune?
Her phone rang, so she put her camera down to answer it, “Hello? Shane?....Shane?....Shane? SHAAANNNE!!!???” At this point the baby was crying and this lady was driving me bananas, obviously too dumb to realize that “Shane” couldn’t hear her. I had officially come unglued and the main course hadn’t even arrived yet.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that the bar was full of drunken World Cup fans yelling, “GOOOAAALLLL” every five minutes. Yay, my two favorite things; drunken idiots and soccer.
I looked at my friends and asked, “Is this all really happening? Are we on TV right now?” They laughed and agreed that this was ridiculous. We had to get out of there.
All in all, the food was good, but our night was a complete disaster. We paid our bills and headed for the front door, only to be bid farewell by one of the soccer fans who had apparently had way too much to drink judging by the pile of urine and vomit he was sitting in right outside the door. The management in this place must be top notch.
I know that there are different people from all walks of life with all kinds of behavioral patterns, and I can usually deal with them in singles. When a group of these strange birds get together I nearly need to be committed. I know its “different strokes for different folks”, but maybe someone can come up with a restaurant concept that accommodates bad servers, horrible patrons, and complete morons. I’ll be sure to skip it.