"Cheddar's"
Cheddar's is a restaurant chain along the lines of Applebee's or TGI Friday's, though, I suppose, less obnoxious. (I am not sure whether TGI Friday's has an apostrophe or not, to tell you the truth. Are they talking about the day of the week, and lots of them, or is it meant to refer to a person with a funny, most likely fictional, name? I do not know.) The wait staff does not sing, or wear flashy costumes, or at least they did not on the day that I was there. (Please pardon the arguably excessive use of parentheticals; I would prefer to use footnotes, but can't seem to figure out how to do that. Imagine, if you will, that these are footnotes. I have italicized them and shrunken the font to assist you in imagining this.)
Immediately upon entering the restaurant, I was greeted enthusiastically by not one but two people, one of whom, after ascertaining politely that yes I would be dining alone today, led me to a table in a secluded corner. Did she know that that was exactly what I wanted? Or was she trying to secret me away where I wouldn't disturb the others? No matter. It was for the best, for everyone. She handed me a menu and a comment card -- that's right, a comment card, right off the bat! How exciting! -- and told me that my server would be right with me. Well, I decided at once that I would keep the comment card as a souvenir rather than filling it out and submitting it. I felt a small amount of remorse about this because I believed that they sincerely cared about what I thought, and really did want my input. I looked about me, to see that no one was looking, and tucked the card into the book I was reading.
The waitress and I had a small misunderstanding about salad dressing, which we eventually settled more or less amicably. The misunderstanding went like this:
I ordered the lunch special, which involved picking any combination of two out of the these three possibilities -- soup, sandwich, salad. (I suppose I could have picked two salads or two sandwiches, etc., though I did not want to and therefore did not ask whether this was permitted.) From within this framework, one could choose any number of different sandwiches, soups and salads. I selected a club sandwich and a bowl of clam chowder. (I'm a sucker for clam chowder, I really am. I eat a lot of it. Probably more than you do.) She asked, "What kind of dressing would you like." Obviously, she thought I had ordered a salad, but that was not the first thing that occurred to me. What I thought at the time was, "What kind of dressing usually comes on a club sandwich?" but I did not say this. In fact, I was a little taken aback, frozen if you will, and said nothing at all, hoping, I suppose, that the situation would simply resolve itself. It did not. The silence lingered, hanging between us like a dead body, until I couldn't bear it any longer. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" I said. Of course, I knew what she said; I just didn't know what she meant by it, so when she repeated the question, "What kind of dressing would you like," we were right back where we started, with that dead body dangling between us. Her expert waitress training and experience pulled us both through this tight spot, however. "I'm sorry," she said, "Did you order a salad?"
Aha! So that was the problem. Of course, it seems obvious after the fact, but it was a bright, clarifying beam of light at the time. And also, a potentially comedic moment which I unfortunately stumbled over with a comment. "I see. I was wondering what kind of dressing would taste best on my sandwich," I said, with a chuckle. (Which might be funnier if you knew that I had no idea what was on a club sandwich; still don't, in fact. I only ordered it because I liked the sound of it. "Club sandwich.") She did not respond at all. I had already taken up too much of her time, and she was moving on to the next table. I don't think she was being rude; she was just in a hurry. And she may not have heard me at all. I do tend to mumble. Still, I felt like I'd been left hanging a bit and looked around to see if any of the other patrons had noticed this little drama.
In fact, it did appear that I had attracted someone's attention. Two young men were sitting at the next table. The one with his back to me turned in my direction and seemed to deliberately not look directly at me, as if his eating companion had suggested that he look at me without drawing attention to himself. Sort of a nod and a wink and a "check out the weirdo at six o'clock." Of course, I could have imagined all this. Well, not the part about him turning around; he really did do that.
My clam chowder came with a small bag of "New England Oyster Crackers." The wrapper was charming, with a drawing of a lighthouse, with rays of light beaming out of it, in the form of dotted lines. I emptied the crackers into my bowl of soup and slipped the wrapper into the book, with the comment card. What a nice souvenir this would make!
As usual, I eat too quickly and find myself feeling guilty about taking up space at a table that could easily seat four. But I still have a half-hour to kill. And it's snowing! I decide to fill out the comment card after all, to pass the time.
Cheddar's is a restaurant chain along the lines of Applebee's or TGI Friday's, though, I suppose, less obnoxious. (I am not sure whether TGI Friday's has an apostrophe or not, to tell you the truth. Are they talking about the day of the week, and lots of them, or is it meant to refer to a person with a funny, most likely fictional, name? I do not know.) The wait staff does not sing, or wear flashy costumes, or at least they did not on the day that I was there. (Please pardon the arguably excessive use of parentheticals; I would prefer to use footnotes, but can't seem to figure out how to do that. Imagine, if you will, that these are footnotes. I have italicized them and shrunken the font to assist you in imagining this.)
Immediately upon entering the restaurant, I was greeted enthusiastically by not one but two people, one of whom, after ascertaining politely that yes I would be dining alone today, led me to a table in a secluded corner. Did she know that that was exactly what I wanted? Or was she trying to secret me away where I wouldn't disturb the others? No matter. It was for the best, for everyone. She handed me a menu and a comment card -- that's right, a comment card, right off the bat! How exciting! -- and told me that my server would be right with me. Well, I decided at once that I would keep the comment card as a souvenir rather than filling it out and submitting it. I felt a small amount of remorse about this because I believed that they sincerely cared about what I thought, and really did want my input. I looked about me, to see that no one was looking, and tucked the card into the book I was reading.
The waitress and I had a small misunderstanding about salad dressing, which we eventually settled more or less amicably. The misunderstanding went like this:
I ordered the lunch special, which involved picking any combination of two out of the these three possibilities -- soup, sandwich, salad. (I suppose I could have picked two salads or two sandwiches, etc., though I did not want to and therefore did not ask whether this was permitted.) From within this framework, one could choose any number of different sandwiches, soups and salads. I selected a club sandwich and a bowl of clam chowder. (I'm a sucker for clam chowder, I really am. I eat a lot of it. Probably more than you do.) She asked, "What kind of dressing would you like." Obviously, she thought I had ordered a salad, but that was not the first thing that occurred to me. What I thought at the time was, "What kind of dressing usually comes on a club sandwich?" but I did not say this. In fact, I was a little taken aback, frozen if you will, and said nothing at all, hoping, I suppose, that the situation would simply resolve itself. It did not. The silence lingered, hanging between us like a dead body, until I couldn't bear it any longer. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" I said. Of course, I knew what she said; I just didn't know what she meant by it, so when she repeated the question, "What kind of dressing would you like," we were right back where we started, with that dead body dangling between us. Her expert waitress training and experience pulled us both through this tight spot, however. "I'm sorry," she said, "Did you order a salad?"
Aha! So that was the problem. Of course, it seems obvious after the fact, but it was a bright, clarifying beam of light at the time. And also, a potentially comedic moment which I unfortunately stumbled over with a comment. "I see. I was wondering what kind of dressing would taste best on my sandwich," I said, with a chuckle. (Which might be funnier if you knew that I had no idea what was on a club sandwich; still don't, in fact. I only ordered it because I liked the sound of it. "Club sandwich.") She did not respond at all. I had already taken up too much of her time, and she was moving on to the next table. I don't think she was being rude; she was just in a hurry. And she may not have heard me at all. I do tend to mumble. Still, I felt like I'd been left hanging a bit and looked around to see if any of the other patrons had noticed this little drama.
In fact, it did appear that I had attracted someone's attention. Two young men were sitting at the next table. The one with his back to me turned in my direction and seemed to deliberately not look directly at me, as if his eating companion had suggested that he look at me without drawing attention to himself. Sort of a nod and a wink and a "check out the weirdo at six o'clock." Of course, I could have imagined all this. Well, not the part about him turning around; he really did do that.
My clam chowder came with a small bag of "New England Oyster Crackers." The wrapper was charming, with a drawing of a lighthouse, with rays of light beaming out of it, in the form of dotted lines. I emptied the crackers into my bowl of soup and slipped the wrapper into the book, with the comment card. What a nice souvenir this would make!
As usual, I eat too quickly and find myself feeling guilty about taking up space at a table that could easily seat four. But I still have a half-hour to kill. And it's snowing! I decide to fill out the comment card after all, to pass the time.
- Yes! The parking lot and grounds were litter-free.
- Yes! I was greeted in a friendly manner. And given a comment card, which I very much appreciated.
- Yes! I was acknowledged promptly by my server.
- Yes! My drink (a Diet Coke) was delivered promptly.
- Yes! My food was delivered within a reasonable time.
- Yes! My order was prepared correctly. (With the caveat, as alluded to above, that I really don't know how to properly prepare a club sandwich.)
- Yes! I was satisfied with the quality of the food and drink.
- Yes! My beverage was kept filled.
- Yes! My server did "check back."
- Yes! My plate was cleared promptly.
- Yes! The check was delivered promptly.
- Did a manager visit my table? I'm not sure. A man with a slightly different uniform and very thick sideburns did walk past and ask me how everything was. A manager? Maybe. Frankly, this trend of managers visiting tables is troubling, for reasons I'd rather not go into right now. Whoever this wide-sideburned person was, however, his visit was not terribley obtrusive.
- Was the lighting/temperature/music appropriate? I don't know how to answer that. It was light enough to read, I did not feel either uncomfortably hot or uncomfortably cold, and I did not notice any music. Applying the "umpire rule," I would say that they passed the test.
- I did not use the restroom, so cannot comment on its cleanliness or the adequacy of its supplies.
- Yes, I suppose that I did receive a "good value." The cost of the lunch was about eight dollars. I rounded it up to ten.
- Yes, under the appropriate circumstances, I would consider a return visit to a Cheddar's restaurant. At any rate, I would not intentionally avoid one.
posted by Unknown at 2:03 PM
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