Sunday, August 08, 2010

what I learned from a cookie

Friday night brought me some snappy live jazz followed by a lesson from a cookie.

The kiddos & I met up with some way-cool friends at Maxfield's. Our table was directly in front of the live jazz trio, which was on purpose. We had to be close enough to count Blanche's eyebrow hairs when it was time for her to sing. That girl can really sing.

Oh my did I EVER enjoy that live jazz. I couldn't take my happy eyes off the percussionist. He had a bedazzling array of facial expressions that kept me fully entertained. And then he sang "Georgia" like nobody's biz-natch. Well I just about fell off my chair with glee.

After the show, the kiddos & I went up the street for some snackies: gelato for #1 Daughter & myself and the Chuck Norris Burger for #1 Son. (He actually ordered his dinner by miming a karate move.)

This particular dining establishment has a bad rep in my social circle. Like slow service. And no napkins or silverware without begging. And disappearing waitresses ( in a non-magic show fashion). But we continue to give this place a try because sometimes, when you finally get served, the food is really good. Also, when you live in a smallish community like ours, the choices for dinner after 8 pm are minimal.

And so there we were, waiting to be noticed. And eventually the usual silly stuff unfolded (see previous paragraph). Except this time, the burger was way overcooked and the fries were practically raw in the middle. Plus, they were barely warm. Plus, I used to be a waitress so I know this shouldn't happen.

#1 Son had to leave the table to rustle up our waitress (MIA) and she promised a different kind of fries, as (and I quote) "the hand-cut fries are NEVER cooked all the way through."

Oh. Now we know.

After we were finished and ready to depart, we decided to skip the promised fries and call it a night. With great reluctance but firm resolve, I decided to finally speak to someone about our unfortunately oft-repeated lack of service.

I really tried to be nice about it, but still almost made the lady-manager cry. So after I had my say and bid her a somewhat less-than-heartfelt goodnight, #1 Son lingered behind to purchase a cookie.

"Those butterfly cookies look pretty good," he said as he peered into the bakery case. "I'd like to buy one, please."

Even after the lady insisted he take one at no charge, he stuffed a dollar into the tip jar. Because that's the kind of quality person he is. On our drive home, I asked him how he thought I did.

"I hated complaining to a manager," I insisted. "But it had to be done."

"You did fine," he insisted sincerely. "But I wanted to leave on a good note, so I bought a butterfly cookie."

When I grow up, I want to be like him.


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