How to Avoid a Shitty Restaurant (Redux)
Writer’s Note: This is a follow up to the February 22nd column, HOW TO AVOID A SHITTY RESTAURANT.
After getting burned by the lousy barbeque joint, the following night I head over to the Thai place just across the street.
Good food. Excellent service. Very affordable. Just like every other Thai restaurant on the planet. I have this conspiracy theory that the food in every Thai restaurant actually comes out of one giant kitchen somewhere over in China (hell, everything’s made in China). I also think the staff are robots. I always seem to get the same 25-year-old skinny waitress with a flower in her hair and perfect skin who speaks broken English and never gets the “spice scale” right when I order a “4.”
However, no one warned me about the vault of horror that I’d experience towards the tail end of my dinner. No one dared to inform me of the musical trigger of indigestion following my main course. Like a random act of terror, it just happened. Like an explosion out of nowhere. And I couldn’t do goddamned thing to get out of the way.
Question: What’s the most nauseating thing you can think of while dining inside a restaurant? Seeing a bug scurrying across the floor? Hair in your food? A karaoke machine? No, much worse than that.
Think real torture.
Think “Guantanamo Bay” kind of torture.
Well by now, you’ve probably figured it out.
I’m talking — Asian guy singing “You Light Up My Life.”
About halfway through my meal here in West Palm Beach, Asian man suddenly appears on a stage. Poof! I didn’t even realize the restaurant had a stage. I mean, what fucking Thai restaurant has a stage?
Don Ho doesn’t even bother to warm up the crowd. No hello. No nothing. Instead, he launches instantly into the Debby Boone barf-bag chestnut, that everyone hated back in 1978 which has now become to music what “Mommie Dearest” is to movies.
So many nights
I’d sit by my window,
Waiting for someone
to sing me this song.
On the list of cringe-worthy moments, this one is right up there. By this time, I can’t ingest any more food without spewing. So I stop eating and whip out trusty cell phone to capture this moment for blogger posterity (see video above).
What’s truly hysterical is that the restaurant is completely stone-cold empty, except for a couple of old blue hairs sitting across the room who probably can’t hear a note. And of course, Asian guy’s microphone is blaring at a full eardrum-blasting “10″ because the megalomaniac is practically masterbating to the sound of his own voice.
So many dreams
I’ve kept deep inside me,
Alone in the dark
But now you’ve come along.
These are the precious moments in time which causes one to reflect on the deeper meanings of life and existence. One hundred and forty days and nights on the road each year, and this is pretty much the highlight of my day.
Following dinner, the restaurant manager comes by. He asks me if I’d like to request a song. I must be special.
Well shit, since I’m the only breathing customer in the dining room other than the Glen Miller Fan Club, I’m now pressured into picking out a song for the fortune cookie crooner.
I’m figuring that Metallica isn’t in exactly his musical wheelhouse. So instead, I opt for something safe. An old standard. Something the blue hairs might even enjoy.
“Yeah, can he do ‘My Way?” I ask.
A few minutes later, the bill is paid. I’m just about to stand and walk out the door. Didn’t quite get to hear “My Way,” but somehow I think I’ll manage to choke back the disappointment of that void in my life and still maintain the will to live.
So just as I rise, the crooner looks over and says, “We have special request now.” Then, he launches into the Sinatra swan song (actually penned by Paul Anka). The trouble is, now I can’t leave. How rude would it be to just walk out in the middle of the song I requested? Plus the singer is looking straight at me, as if he’s fulfilling that lifelong dream of mine and turning this into one of the most cherished moments of my life. I can’t just fucking stand up and walk out!
So, I sit. And sit. And sit. And sit.
And he sings. And sings. And sings.
By his time, empty dishes have been cleared from my table, including the glassware. So, I can’t even nurse a beverage and pretend to act natural, while the crooner is singing straight at me. Hands clasped, I nervously gaze around the room anxiously awaiting every note while sitting at a table that’s already been bussed and prepped for the next customer.
I’ve lived a life that’s full
Ive traveled each and every highway.
And more, much more than this
I did it My Way.
After it’s over, there’s dead silence in the room. Except for two hands clapping, which were mine. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Now — emotions fulfilled and completed as a man, I make a mad run for the front door quicker than Usian Bolt running the 100-meter dash.
After yet another awkward restaurant experience, I sure won’t be doing things “My Way” again.
Can I just say, “You light up my life, Nolan”
I ate at a Thai restaurant in Los Angeles that had entertainment like this. Cant remember the name of the place but it was near Hollywood I believe..it was surreal..
Wait, Nolan is complaining about being subject to karaoke? But, that’s a counter-rant for another time.
What I want to do is comment on your BBQ adventure. Honestly, in my experience, your rules of thumb are not useful to me in picking out the restaurants I appreciate the most. Frankly, I think they’re largely uncorrelated with restaurant quality, except at the higher end. At the very least, I know I can name a restaurant that you’d like that violates each one of these. What your rules will do is direct your to your nearest Macaroni Grill. It’s true, this is safe food, but I’m willing to take some chances at having a bad meal in order to also have a chance at having a great meal. Sometimes these turn out to be duds, but I’ll take that for an opportunity to eat something that didn’t just come off the back of a truck in a bag.
Moreover, when it comes to BBQ restaurants, your rules of thumb are anti-useful. I’ve eaten and Lord knows how many BBQ joints across the country, whether its KC, Texas, NC, California, St. Louis, Memphis, Alabama, or anywhere else this great cuisine is served.
Here are the real signs of a good BBQ spot.
The best BBQ places I’ve eaten at have generally had horrible service. They train their front of the house staff at Tony Roma’s, they are much less likely to do so at the hole-in-the-wall family run places that I’ve found have the best (and, admittedly, sometimes the worst) Q. When I’m going for good BBQ, I expect the service is going to be less efficient than at some corporate hell hole.
Are you in a good neighborhood? The best BBQ places are in questionable, at best, neighborhoods. A really good BBQ joint has no chance of making ends meet in Summerlin.
Busy can be a good thing for restaurants in general, but it’s unreliable. What was busier on the corner of Fort Apache and Charleston, Claim Jumper or Tre? Enough said. What busy means is that it’s a good business, this is sometimes correlated with good food, but just as often it isn’t, and for every example you give me about where this is correlated, I can give you two where it isn’t. If this weren’t the case, restaurants you like would never go out of business. However, I’ll freely admit that BBQ places are one restaurant genre where success and good food are correlated. On the other hand, think about the best BBQ chefs you’ve met. How many of them would you classify as good businessmen? In my case, none. How many good businessmen do you think could make good BBQ? My list consists of a single name.
I don’t think the confused look on your order taker’s face when you tried to order is necessarily a warning sign. If you’re going in to a place like this, it seems to me what you want to order is what the regulars are ordering. So, if you’re confusing the wait staff, you’re probably ordering the wrong thing. Again, this isn’t always true, but in a place like this it’s more likely than not. This is decidedly not true for all cuisine types and all neighborhoods.
Now, how do you find a good BBQ place? Far and away, the number one indicator is whether or not you see smoke. If you don’t see smoke billowing from some part of the joint, it’s not BBQ. It’s grilled food, not BBQed food. Now, grilled ribs can be just fine, but that’s not the way to bet. If you find smoke, a bunch of people, somewhat surly wait staff (like the Soup Nazi, they can sell their food whether the staff is pleasant or not), the staff looks confused when they have to answer questions (their customers are regulars who know the score) then you’re in good shape, but order what everyone else is ordering and you’ll do fine.
Some times you hit a bad apple, though. That sucks. But, speaking for myself, I’d still rather do that than eat at chains when I have the option. It’s the price I pay for an authentic experience.
Come to Austin and I will show you real BBQ. The “in” place is called Franklin’s where people stand in line upwards of 2 hours to buy the food. No place is worth that torture in my mind but there are so many fine BBQ places in Austin that have good to crappy service it doesnt matter.