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"Never Again" Experiences


mame11

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Maybe. But anyone who voluntarily eats at Afterwords deserves whatever they get.
I wouldn't go to Afterwards expecting great service, and the whole piece seems like an overly broad generalization to me. The only other one of the places mentioned that I have experience with is Firefly, and I've never had bad, or even subpar, service there.

I've never waited tables, but there's something about [paraphrase] <<I tip 25% if the service is to my liking and otherwise I leave coins and a grumpy note>> that sets off my radar.

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he makes good points but does slip when his expecatatons about the food should come from the server, and not towards the person actually cooking the food.
That's just dopey.

My worst service experiences were in NYC, but I don't generalize and say that all NYC waiters are jerks.

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What my intention was to follow by saying i agree that he shouldn't have to ask for refills, servers shouldn't have to reach over unless the table is contorted in a certain way, you should be efficient in taking the order, and not drag the feet, but how the food tastes clearly rests on the kitchens shoulders.

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It's a gross generalization but there was a recent survey evaluating customer service and the Baltimore/Washington DC area came in dead last. It's not restricted to the food industry, of course.

I have to admit that good service seems to be the exception to the rule around here. I have alot of tolerance for things outside the server's (or cashier's or whatever) control. But I hit the $#%@% roof when I have to wait for the cashier at the gas station to finish her cell phone conversation (this happened three times before I stopped going to that gas station). Or cashiers who can't figure out why I've given them $10.43 for a $2.43 bill. Or the pharmacist who said it wasn't her problem my prescription hadn't been filled and that I should make an appointment to see my doctor (I asked for her supervisor, who straightened everything out in under 90 seconds)....you get the idea. And I definitely run into alot more around here than in other places.

I'm sure people in the service industry have their own horror stories about moronic customers. It could be a chicken and egg kinda thing if you're trying to figure out which beget which.

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At Notti Bianche this weekend, two service issues arose that don't make me say "never again" but only because I love the food there--

1- We show up and there is no one there to valet the car. My husband goes in to see if someone can help. He walks up to the podium, and the GM/matrie'd walks away without saying, "excuse me for a second" or whatever. Then, he comes back and my husband explains the situation, and the GM says "What do you want me to do about it." At that point, a couple comes in, and the GM turns away to deal with them, without so much as an "Excuse me." My husband almost goes through the roof. The person at the front of the house is the public face of the restaurant, and it's shocking when you are confronted with rudeness from the get-go.

2- There was a large party (maybe 6-7) next to us. The server goes over and says, "we need your table now, the next party is here." They are still eating dessert. Our group watched as half of the group vacated the table (it was 2 4-tops pushed together) and while they were still standing around finishing conversation, the GM goes over and separates the tables and chairs. It was all very rude, and if were that party, I would have been quite upset (it appeared to be some kind of celebration since it was a larger group). Plus, about 20 minutes later, the restaurant really cleared up and there would have been tables available for the group of 4 without disrupting the existing party.

I just kept thinking that it could have been handled with so much more class-- we were at Bucks a year ago, and after we had gotten the check the server came over and ask, very apologetically, if we wouldn't mind moving to the bar and having an after dinner drink on the house because another couple is about to burst if they don't sit down. We weren't going to linger anyway, but it was a nice gesture.

Of course, this was just my observation, and I don't know the particulars-- were they told that they needed to vacate by a certain time when they made the reservation? Had they already been there for hours?

Our server, Elizabeth, however, was quite charming and we had a very nice evening. (Risotto and squash raviolis were excellent!). As Tom S. pointed out in his chat, if only the restaurant's front of the house could match what is coming out of the kitchen.

3--On Sunday morning, we wanted to take the in-laws to Raku in Bethesda for lunch. Before we go, we call to see if we can make a reservation. The response is that reservations need to be made at least one hour in advance, so they could not take our reservation. Since I'm not in the business, I'm not sure what the reason for that policy-- I understand "no reservations" or "no availability," but I didn't get this...

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Check this out.This is a post from a local blogger about service in DC. I think he's a bit harsh -- it just sounds awfully darn superior. However, I think his expectations mirror those of a lot of folks in the city (right or wrong)...
Judging from his service rant and the tenor of the rest of his bloggerel, Mr. Markbright sounds to me like the kind of person who attracts bad service as carrion does maggots.
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In short, I expect to be treated like a king. I am out to dinner and letting you have the opportunity to make a good amount of money for doing nothing more than placing an order, filling a glass, serving and clearing food.
Wow. Just.....wow.
I just don't find this surprising. He sounds like every other entitled young a**hole in this town who has never had to work in a retail or service job.
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Check this out.This is a post from a local blogger about service in DC. I think he's a bit harsh -- it just sounds awfully darn superior. However, I think his expectations mirror those of a lot of folks in the city (right or wrong)...

This must be the same guy who wrote this article. My apologies to whomever posted that before... :)

I'd be glad to take that Firefly gift card off his hands.

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In short, I expect to be treated like a king. I am out to dinner and letting you have the opportunity to make a good amount of money for doing nothing more than placing an order, filling a glass, serving and clearing food
.

At this point, the rant seems so over-the-top it makes me question the author's sincerity. It seems to be a joke. Or an attempt at one, at least.

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At this point, the rant seems so over-the-top it makes me question the author's sincerity. It seems to be a joke. Or an attempt at one, at least.

If it is, then the entire blog is a similarly failed joke, as the rest of the tone is, well, like..

every other entitled young a**hole in this town who has never had to work in a retail or service job

(thanks to Heather for wording it more aptly than I could)

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you find yourself miles from home at an italian restaurant off seven locks road on the way, if you remember correctly, to the rockville prison, with your wife, your mother and your number-two son, and everyone is supremely happy because they are all heavily medicated, primarily with a variety of prescription drugs. You know the drugs must be working because your son was supposed to pick you up, but at the last minute was diverted by a call from a nurse, named after an alcoholic beverage, who needed a ride to work in the exurbs and was able to get one because she has been cheating on her steady boyfriend, and it has not phased you in the slightest. before arriving at the restaurant half an hour before your reservation, primarily because your son wants to get to bed because he needs to leave early for work – at 9:00 – the next morning, your mother confides that what she really likes is Chinese and there are some good noodle houses around. You remind her of the time you ate in the Robert donna restaurant just below chevy chase circle and the nice Italian boy came out and was the only one who sang happy birthday to you like they really meant it. These are the same people, you tell her, and by the time you are seated at a table for four, situated so that the two seats by the wall are inaccessible to the waiter, she starts to remember, fondly, conceding that Italian is okay too.

your son, it turns out, is not as medicated as he wants to be and disappears from the table as soon as he gets to it, most likely to sneak a few drags from a cigarette in the bathroom. The water boy starts filling your glasses, and before you know it, right before your eyes, he turns into your waiter and begins a feeble attempt to recite the day’s specials and before he’s even made it past the appetizers – a shrimp and fennel salad and sardines on arugula – he’s paging madly through his small assignment pad, finishing up just before your son returns, and shaking. By now, your waiter has eternally endeared himself to his female customers, who after the drink order is taken, surmise that this is his first time and he isn’t even old enough to be in junior college. The martini order he can handle, but before you are asked to spell campari, the maitre d’ appears, along with the assurance that he drinks campari all the time, and you are beaming and at the same time wondering how much is left. Two at the table order diet cokes, a clue to what sort of medications they are on, but missed entirely by the young neophyte, who might have been able to guess anyhow. A bread basket is presented, containing two lean pieces of country white and two of focaccia, arousing good natured critical commentary, and your mother is asking where the olive oil is, a question that remains unanswered until the third bread basket is delivered, this time virtually groaning under six slices of white. As the menus are scoured, general confusion is voiced about several items on the menu, starting understandably with salmoriglio, but devolving quickly into what on earth rabe, fennel and polenta might possibly be. The waiter is nowhere around as members of the table begin delving into their collected unconsciousness for lost recognitions, which is probably just as well, and by the time he takes the final order, decisions have been made, with the small exception of your mother, who discovers that she has overlooked an entire column of the menu and decides now is a good time to read it, thoroughly. As the waiter departs, your son, boisterously and incorrectly it will turn out, predicts that he is not going to get it right, although when the dishes do arrive the runners don’t know who gets what, which creates a modicum of bemusement, because you and your company were so caught up in the moment that what you were ordering didn’t totally register at the time, so all you can think when asked now is that it must have been something, or one of these.

As your meal progresses, everyone still feeling like a lark, the food is assessed and pronouncements are made, demonstratively, which doesn’t matter because the noise level has climbed with the arrival of an impressive number of guests who are just as deliriously happy as you are. The two grilled and butterflied sardines smell strong and are a stingy portion, but you don’t agree because you’re the one who’s eating them and your wife is not. The tomatoes interspersed with slices of mozzarella hoist a wan flag that the growing season is over, but your son who is eating them likes them. Playing in a field of fennel after her shrimp have been dispatched, your mother says she would prefer onions, but your wife, who ordered the same special, likes the fennel, and cannot agree that it is flavorless. Your son, however, does agree that it is flavorless, provided that it is supposed to taste like licorice. Your wife is not overly impressed with the pool of polenta accompanying an order of veal scallopini that is almost as delicious as the veal Milanese she enjoyed so much at bebo only three nights earlier and can’t imagine what her family would think about eating chunks of poor, defenseless, dead cow babies even once, let alone twice in one week. They would disinherit her for sure if they found out, which wouldn’t really matter, because they squandered the inheritance a long time ago on vodka, trailers and such. Your mother is scaling a mountain of brightly sauced angel hair, lifting her fork to the heavens, after the shrimp have been taken care of, and nobody who isn’t eating it thinks it looks good, which she confirms by saying it is okay. Your son is scarfing up a fairly large pizza and you know he is in his element from the molten fontina that he has dribbled down his chin and his neck. While the table is running dry by your second course, and it looks almost certain you will have to attempt tackling your entrees without lubrication, a parmesan cheese runner provides you and your wife the opportunity to order glasses of chianti and chardonnay. Your wife and your mother are genuinely happy to see their waiter again, your wine requests are reiterated and when they appear shortly both glasses are red. This is not chardonnay, you tell him, but he insists that it is, cabernet, and your son lights up to magically patch the small failure of communication, restoring the warm glow of the peaceable kingdom where you have been dwelling all night.

The dishes are cleared and your mother and wife, too full for dessert, discuss the difficulty of securing necklace clasps and the disappointment of losing earring pearls. Your son went to high school with the general manager and has applied online for a part-time bartending job at firefly but he didn’t have the time to stop by today, as maybe he was supposed to, but he doesn’t blame you for dragging him off to dinner with his parents and grandmother and he doesn’t blame his acquaintance who is named after something commonly consumed from a snifter, and you remain consummately happy even after being dropped off at the white flint metro instead of driven to your front door as earlier arranged.

Will you ever go back again? Probably not, even if it were possible.

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Sorry, I do not have time to read all that :)
Readers Digest version. Family outing, semi-pickled. new waiter, unread menus, too much time, not enough bread..no olive oil. orders delivered, passed at random...no wine ordered...wine ordered....cabernet, not chardonnay (not that big a deal anyway...miscommunication). stuff faces,pay bill...leave...go back? probably not...bottom line...too damn many words...from Madrid and no bad restaurants here...good blood sausage...good suckling pig...good roast baby lamb...who cares about lousy MD restaurant?
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you find yourself miles from home at an italian restaurant off seven locks road on the way, if you remember correctly, to the rockville prison, with your wife, your mother and your number-two son, and everyone is supremely happy because they are all heavily medicated, primarily with a variety of prescription drugs. You know the drugs must be working because your son was supposed to pick you up, but at the last minute was diverted by a call from a nurse, named after an alcoholic beverage, who needed a ride to work in the exurbs and was able to get one because she has been cheating on her steady boyfriend, and it has not phased you in the slightest. before arriving at the restaurant half an hour before your reservation, primarily because your son wants to get to bed because he needs to leave early for work – at 9:00 – the next morning, your mother confides that what she really likes is Chinese and there are some good noodle houses around. You remind her of the time you ate in the Robert donna restaurant just below chevy chase circle and the nice Italian boy came out and was the only one who sang happy birthday to you like they really meant it. These are the same people, you tell her, and by the time you are seated at a table for four, situated so that the two seats by the wall are inaccessible to the waiter, she starts to remember, fondly, conceding that Italian is okay too.

your son, it turns out, is not as medicated as he wants to be and disappears from the table as soon as he gets to it, most likely to sneak a few drags from a cigarette in the bathroom. The water boy starts filling your glasses, and before you know it, right before your eyes, he turns into your waiter and begins a feeble attempt to recite the day’s specials and before he’s even made it past the appetizers – a shrimp and fennel salad and sardines on arugula – he’s paging madly through his small assignment pad, finishing up just before your son returns, and shaking. By now, your waiter has eternally endeared himself to his female customers, who after the drink order is taken, surmise that this is his first time and he isn’t even old enough to be in junior college. The martini order he can handle, but before you are asked to spell campari, the maitre d’ appears, along with the assurance that he drinks campari all the time, and you are beaming and at the same time wondering how much is left. Two at the table order diet cokes, a clue to what sort of medications they are on, but missed entirely by the young neophyte, who might have been able to guess anyhow. A bread basket is presented, containing two lean pieces of country white and two of focaccia, arousing good natured critical commentary, and your mother is asking where the olive oil is, a question that remains unanswered until the third bread basket is delivered, this time virtually groaning under six slices of white. As the menus are scoured, general confusion is voiced about several items on the menu, starting understandably with salmoriglio, but devolving quickly into what on earth rabe, fennel and polenta might possibly be. The waiter is nowhere around as members of the table begin delving into their collected unconsciousness for lost recognitions, which is probably just as well, and by the time he takes the final order, decisions have been made, with the small exception of your mother, who discovers that she has overlooked an entire column of the menu and decides now is a good time to read it, thoroughly. As the waiter departs, your son, boisterously and incorrectly it will turn out, predicts that he is not going to get it right, although when the dishes do arrive the runners don’t know who gets what, which creates a modicum of bemusement, because you and your company were so caught up in the moment that what you were ordering didn’t totally register at the time, so all you can think when asked now is that it must have been something, or one of these.

As your meal progresses, everyone still feeling like a lark, the food is assessed and pronouncements are made, demonstratively, which doesn’t matter because the noise level has climbed with the arrival of an impressive number of guests who are just as deliriously happy as you are. The two grilled and butterflied sardines smell strong and are a stingy portion, but you don’t agree because you’re the one who’s eating them and your wife is not. The tomatoes interspersed with slices of mozzarella hoist a wan flag that the growing season is over, but your son who is eating them likes them. Playing in a field of fennel after her shrimp have been dispatched, your mother says she would prefer onions, but your wife, who ordered the same special, likes the fennel, and cannot agree that it is flavorless. Your son, however, does agree that it is flavorless, provided that it is supposed to taste like licorice. Your wife is not overly impressed with the pool of polenta accompanying an order of veal scallopini that is almost as delicious as the veal Milanese she enjoyed so much at bebo only three nights earlier and can’t imagine what her family would think about eating chunks of poor, defenseless, dead cow babies even once, let alone twice in one week. They would disinherit her for sure if they found out, which wouldn’t really matter, because they squandered the inheritance a long time ago on vodka, trailers and such. Your mother is scaling a mountain of brightly sauced angel hair, lifting her fork to the heavens, after the shrimp have been taken care of, and nobody who isn’t eating it thinks it looks good, which she confirms by saying it is okay. Your son is scarfing up a fairly large pizza and you know he is in his element from the molten fontina that he has dribbled down his chin and his neck. While the table is running dry by your second course, and it looks almost certain you will have to attempt tackling your entrees without lubrication, a parmesan cheese runner provides you and your wife the opportunity to order glasses of chianti and chardonnay. Your wife and your mother are genuinely happy to see their waiter again, your wine requests are reiterated and when they appear shortly both glasses are red. This is not chardonnay, you tell him, but he insists that it is, cabernet, and your son lights up to magically patch the small failure of communication, restoring the warm glow of the peaceable kingdom where you have been dwelling all night.

The dishes are cleared and your mother and wife, too full for dessert, discuss the difficulty of securing necklace clasps and the disappointment of losing earring pearls. Your son went to high school with the general manager and has applied online for a part-time bartending job at firefly but he didn’t have the time to stop by today, as maybe he was supposed to, but he doesn’t blame you for dragging him off to dinner with his parents and grandmother and he doesn’t blame his acquaintance who is named after something commonly consumed from a snifter, and you remain consummately happy even after being dropped off at the white flint metro instead of driven to your front door as earlier arranged.

Will you ever go back again? Probably not, even if it were possible.

The same as what happened to me, word for word, except that in my version:

I'M the one being picked up from Rockville prison, medications are being properly exchanged under the table, I am regularly making trips to the rest room to down pre-arranged shots at the bar instead of just wasting time at the table, the nurses are ON PREMISES (at least they claimed to be nurses), and the water glasses were never re-filled.

Oh, and did I mention--I'm not wearing pants!

But I will be back. God, will I be back. Will I ever stop going back?

Best post I have ever read and so, so worth the time. Giant Shrimp, you are now, like, Giant Crevette, in my book. Maybe even Giant Prawn.

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I have to share about a restaurant which has recently been through some staff turnover, so I won't name it.

I went in for Saturday brunch. There was one other table in the entire restaurant, three waiters, a gm, a hostess, and a busboy visible, and more kitchen staff.

First, we wait for 10 minutes, while one waiter is engaged in a deep conversation with another table in the corner. Then two of the waiters argue for a few minutes about who is supposed to wait on us, while the third fiddles with silverware. Then, the loser skulks over and asks what we want to drink. He goes back to the kitchen to get juice and coffee (in a press).

Comes back empty handed, then goes over to resume his conversation with the other table. We wait. For another 15 minutes, after which he fetches drinks, after I give him the stink eye to tear him away from the conversation. By this time, my coffee is cold and bitter and weak from steeping so long. We have drunk all our water, and both busboy and waiter two are engaged in other tasks. The waiter apologizes, saying he was having a fascinating conversation about the middle east, and that they were a very chatty couple.

He takes our order (an omlet and a burger), takes it to the kitchen, and goes back to his conversation. About 25 minutes later, our food comes out. My omlet is cold, its filling completely unappetizing, and I'm really irritated. In the meantime, a party of 4 or 5 has come in, gotten a third waiter, had their meals served and is chatting over the paper.

I lose my temper and ask to speak to the manger. The manager comes another 7-8 minutes later, and I explain the situation. Manager replaces coffee, waiter comes back in 10 minutes with a fresh omlet (my husband's burger gets cold, meanwhile, since he wants to eat with me), and a snarky comment along the lines of 'is your coffee strong enough for you?! Is that omlet hot now?"

To his credit, the manager comped my food. But geez, a fine dining restaurant with more staff than customers can't do better than this? I don't expect slavish attentive service, but warm food served properly should not be this complicated.

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The worst episode I've had was a few years ago. It happened at lunch at a little Italian place on Capitol Hill, behind Schneider's I think. I ordered the veal parmesan sandwich. A little while later I'm presented with the eggplant parmesan sandwich. I said to the waitress, "I'm sorry, but I ordered the veal parmesan sandwich."

This little joint I believe no longer has that waitress. We go there all the time. The food is cheap and good and the service always wonderful. Guess they got wind of this waitress and dumped her fast.

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A La Lucia in Alexandria. The food is good, but not worth the maitre'd's attitude. My party of 7 had reservations for 8:45 and was told our table would be ready shortly. After 30 minutes and several inquiries, we were finally told that there was only one table at which we'd be seated, and the party at that table was simply not getting up. We asked whether we could be seated at separate tables, but simply told that we would have to wait for the one table. After 45 minutes, we finally left. The staff was not apologetic at all, told us we hadn't waited long enough, and finally just dismissed us. None of us will be returning to A La Lucia.

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A divey place in our transistional neighborhood that has very good food. Each of the last two times I was there a customer had a bit too much to drink and lost their dinner in the middle of of the very tiny (5 table) dining area. Despite the extreme politeness of the staff in dealing with these situations, I have learned my lesson, and I will not be returning for a third viewing.

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A divey place in our transistional neighborhood that has very good food. Each of the last two times I was there a customer had a bit too much to drink and lost their dinner in the middle of of the very tiny (5 table) dining area. Despite the extreme politeness of the staff in dealing with these situations, I have learned my lesson, and I will not be returning for a third viewing.
Cue spit take.

That's one of the funniest things I've read in some time.

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Endured a drab lunch not long ago and while my expectations of lunch in general rival those of convincement by Jehovah’s Solicitors that “the end of false religions is near”, no self-righteous good can come from goofing on a very reputable restaurant, despite their abhorrent oversights. However, having sped-read the apocryphal mumbo-jumbo pamphlet, I must repent and regale the community before the Rapture, Eternity in hell or Bobby Flay’s next cup size; which ever comes first.

Upon our 6-top being seated in the near empty dining room, fellow guests and I squelched at the varied Libby-esque trift store stemware, and mostly-poly blend napkins which were slightly thicker than any grandmother’s slips (same color though) and slid off most trousers. The soups arrived on a large serving tray next to the table whereupon the plastic-wrap was near-expertly removed and humbly served.

One soup’s corner pieces could have been advertized with “now 50% more filler!” Mostly fat or bread for buoyancy, void of salt, spice or herb and remarkably held together by either residual protein or magic. Another was dry; the bloated, beached starches having sucked up all the juice from the pool. Wine and espresso were pleasant and free peppermints on exit received enthusiastic nods.

Taste and the value of a $60 lunch is subjective and critics have labeled me as particular and cheap. Nonetheless, the tableside plastic-unwrapping was a scooch more pedestrian than I would have expected even from a Christmas lunch buffet in Little Rock on a particularly cheap budget, much less an allegedly award winning chef. One might assume that the soups were heated in a microwave and then expedited. Lazy traditionalist and tactful good liars would have topped the bowls with a cloche after/before nuking said soup. Anyone else would have taken the plastic off before sending it to the table or delegated the responsibility. A pocket-full few veteran disciples of the Medici era still heat soups in metal pots with fire.

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A recent post on another thread reminded me that restaurants are used to being asked to comp a birthday dessert. Not too long ago, knowing I would be dining in the company of Birthday Person, and not wanting anything gratis, I had quietly made arrangements ahead, and when dessert orders were being taken, I reminded the waiter about the special dessert, and asked him to be sure to put it on my tab.

So out came the dessert, complete with candle, placed in front of Birthday Person with a flourish accompanied by singing of "the song." Unfortunately, it was not the dessert that had been requested. (Rather than a piece of fruit tart, it was an ice cream and whipped cream type of thing . . . whatcha gonna do??) Birthday Person blew out the candle and conversation resumed as the candle smoke wafted toward the ceiling.

Just as Birthday Person was about to pick up spoon and insert into dessert, something most unbelievable occurred: the waiter came back and stealthily reached around and whisked the dessert away and placed it in front of another person at the table who had ordered this dessert (albeit without blown candle spittle all over it!) :P This left poor Birthday Person holding a spoon, staring down with mute astonishment at an empty plate. Minute upon minute went by – no waiter in sight. When it became apparent that no replacement dessert would be forthcoming for Birthday Person, the (owner? maitre’d?) was hunted down, and eventually a piece of fruit tart was unceremoniously plunked down for Birthday Person. No apology, no explanation, certainly no comp, and apparently no clue. Never again.

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*Bump* This thread is overdue for reconsideration, given that no posts were made herein in all of 2007.

Any more horror stories? Any embarrassing incidents? Any examples of bad diner behavior that restaurant folk want to dish out?

Some restaurants in this thread have since closed and other restaurants have opened. Surely there must be some new gruesome stories to relate?

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BLT Steak, hands down worst meal last year. The service was horrible, the steaks were charred, and the sides were blah, but I guess the kicker was that they opened the bottle of wine, tried it, and served it to us. I generally like when a restaurant does this, but why do it if you are going to serve a corked bottle anyway?

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*Bump* This thread is overdue for reconsideration, given that no posts were made herein in all of 2007.

Not sure if this quite reached "never again" status, but we had a dinner at Oyamel that was almost Shakespearean in its ridiculousness. Even though the waitress read the order back to us, some dishes never came out, and others came out twice. Every dish was delivered by a runner carrying a big tray laden with little dishes and little slips of paper, and every time - every time - it was "did you order the tamale?" or "who got the tacos?", and when the answer was "we didn't", the runners' response was either "really?" or worse, "yes, you did!" :mellow: It was a mess.

Honestly, I'm a big fan of Jose Andres' cooking, but his service model at Jaleo, Zaytinya, and Oyamel needs rethinking. We've experienced the same problem at each one of these "little plates" restaurants. I don't really know how they do things, but I can just imagine scurrying food runners rapidly loading their trays with a flurry of dishes meant for several different tables, because when they arrive at a table they're fussing around these little slips of paper and auctioning the food. And normally, this so-called food auctioning ("who got the shrimp?") never bothers me. Because normally, in other restaurants, at least the runner has delivered it to the right table.

That night Mr P pointed out that in twenty years of dining out together, only four times has he asked to speak with a manager (about a problem, that is; more often we seek a manager to compliment some aspect of our meal). And three of those times have been at a Jose Andres restaurant.

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Have you ever actually tried the pizza? I haven't, and won't. Even the video games are sickening because all the knobs and buttons are completely coated with grease. This place should be called Upchucky Cheese.

No, but back in the early 80's when I was a youth the Showbiz Pizza Place had absolutely awful pizza. Yet parents in Chattanooga, TN, still subjected their children to it. There wasn't much to do there.

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That Cuban Place in Frederick. I had been wanting to pop in there and try it out so one sunny Saturday my husband and I wandered in there. About 2 in the afternoon. Place was empty except for a flock of floosies the bartender/order taker could not stop trying to score with. We literally stood there for for ten minutes waiting to order , while he studiously ignored us. What a jerk.

I have stopped going to Vace in Bethesda because the older woman behind the counter is such a misery.

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Our never again experience was three years ago in New Smyrna Beach, FL. We were there for 2 weeks with our anniversary falling into that time. We'd been the NSB several times and would have had no problem picking a nice place for our anniversary dinner but we strayed off the reservation. While driving around we saw this little house that had been converted into a restaurant called The Patio. Noticing someone out front tending to the place we pulled up and asked about dinner reservations for that night and were told ok.

Little did we know, there was already a big private party scheduled for the back outdoor patio and it was prom night. Yea, you can already see that this isn't going to be pretty.

I have the longer, funnier and more detailed experience from this nighttime comedy of errors on my blog. But to give you the readers digest version:

1. Ordered the Chateaubriand for our entree (shared of course); an appetizer and a bottle of champagne. About 10 minutes later, we're told the chef said the Chateaubriand will take too long, he's too busy with the large party out back and said we needed to order something else. Right before that, we were also told they were out of the champagne we ordered (Moet White Star) but would be happy to substitute the one they had left, Andre. Uh......no. We opted for a carafe of the house red or as we later called it the house swill. However it helped us get through the night and watch this trainwreck of a dinner unfold.

2. It took nearly an hour from the time we sat down to the time we got the appetizer, we set upon it like a pack of wolves.

3. My entree was beef wellington. The wellington part was right, but if that was beef inside it it was the oldest meanest steer ever. Then again I think I heard it whinny when I cut sawed into it.

4. Jim ordered the shrimp stuffed beef. What he got was a slab of beef with a hugh chuck of fat in the middle and some shrimp scattered on top.

5. More than 2 hours and one carafe of cheap red wine later we ordered dessert to go. Turns out the dessert was the best part of the meal. Go figure.

We laughed about this being the one anniversary dinner we'll never forget (actually the flashbacks aren't so bad anymore).

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The worst local experience I ever had was at Vivaldis on Connecticut Ave. It's since gone out of business, but that was one of the worst meals I can ever remember.

More recently, I'd have to say 2Amys is somewhere I'll never go back to. The pizza we had there was so thin and soggy you couldn't cut it. There was barely any sauce and the cheese was mostly melted into a watery puddle. So disappointing! I understand alot of people like it and perhaps I just got a bad pie, but it's not somewhere I'll ever go back to.

Also, in Myrtle Beach, I went with a friend to a very nice restaurant. When we arrived at the hostess stand and gave our name, she said "Oh I didn't realize it was for two guys." There was then alot of whispering between her and the manager. They let us know they had planned at putting us at a round table for 2, and were now trying to find another table. Not seeing the problem, we said the round table was fine, but they refused to let us sit there. We were then given a table hidden in the back as if they were ashamed to have 2 males dining together in their restaurant. The meal was fine but won't be going back.

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More recently, I'd have to say 2Amys is somewhere I'll never go back to. The pizza we had there was so thin and soggy you couldn't cut it. There was barely any sauce and the cheese was mostly melted into a watery puddle. So disappointing! I understand alot of people like it and perhaps I just got a bad pie, but it's not somewhere I'll ever go back to.

While I understand that it was a disappointing meal, how did they handle it when you brought it up to them?

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If the service is just awful, and it seems to be present throughout the entire operation (servers, hosts, managers, etc.), I will be more unlikely to go back as opposed to if the food isn't so great. Granted, if the food sucks and no one has said good things about it, I won't go back, but if a lot of people recommend the food to me and I go, but it seems like an off night, I will try it again. However, I can't stand bad service, especially if it is brought to the attention of management, there is no excuse for it.

With that being said, I had that kind of service at Signatures back in the day and never returned (not that it matters much now). On the flip side, I love Farrah Olivia and have only had good experiences there, ironic how that works out.

Another awful service, and awful food, experience was at i Ricchi a few years ago. To this day, I still consider it the worst restaurant experience of my life (when you consdier how much money we were paying to be there). You will never, ever see me set foot in that place again.

When it comes down to it, there are so many amazing restaurants in this area, why go back to a place that is awful!? If you see a glimmer of hope, try it again to see if they improve, but once you disappoint me twice, you won't see me again.

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Another awful service, and awful food, experience was at i Ricchi a few years ago. To this day, I still consider it the worst restaurant experience of my life (when you consdier how much money we were paying to be there). You will never, ever see me set foot in that place again.
I was flipping through a copy of the tourist rage Where, and saw that this year they awarded I Ricchi best fine dining restaurant in Washington. :mellow:
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I'd have to say that RFD falls under this category of "never again." I should probably have known better than to eat there, but of course, a couple of beers deep, you make questionable food-related judgments. Also, the beer list is almost pedestrian at this point and I really find no other reason to want to go there anymore.

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Agraria's won this one for me, hands down. The first meal, during its early days, was saved only by Derek's charm and persistent presence. Our second attempt was even worse, with the quality of the food now, sadly, equaling the "quality" of the service.

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Awful...sucks...awful, awful, worst...awful...worse...
Without specifics, such hastily concluded verdicts have absolutely no merit and put the diner's one-dimensional tastes and angry judgements into question, much like they would under a specific restaurant's thread. The topic's title encourages tales of justified malcontent more than single adjective musings of varying intensity.
If the service is just awful, and it seems to be present throughout the entire operation (servers, hosts, managers, etc.), I will be more unlikely to go back as opposed to if the food isn't so great.
Consider some of the district's finer institutional cafeterias. You will have no one but yourself to blame for poor service.
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Consider some of the district's finer institutional cafeterias. You will have no one but yourself to blame for poor service.

Freddie Mac used to be one of my clients, so I have been to the PHO IV Cafeteria, it was awesome for a cafeteria.

As for i Ricchi, in order to be fair, I will include some of the lowlights from our meal there (it was at least four years ago)...

1. We had reservations, but had to wait 45 minutes for our table. No one ever apologized to us for having to wait, no drinks were offered at the bar. While I usually don't expect anything for free, I talked about that in another thread previously, when you make someone wait 45 minutes for a table when they have a reservation, the least that you can do is buy them a drink.

2. Our waiter was a prick, there is no other way to put it, he was having a bad day and was determined to take it out on everyone else. As always, instead of simply complaining after the fact, I talked to the host about it and they said that they would send the manager over. When the manager didn't come over for 10 minutes, I searched for him myself and eventually found him. I told him about our waiter and the manager snapped, "What do you want me to do!?" It was not a "what can I do to make this a better experience for you", it was a "what the fuck do you want me to do you whining asshole." I asked if he would talk to the waiter about his attitude and the manager replied, "That would just piss him off." I then asked to be moved out of his section and the manager replied, "You will have to wait at least an hour for another table." Yes, I should have left at that point, but I didn't.

3. The good thing about our nasty waiter is that he didn't want to help, so he was never around to upset us. It made things tough to get, but at least I didn't have to put up with his attitude.

4. I don't remember exactly what we had for dinner, but I do remember that we had two appetizers, two entrees and two desserts and we liked one of the desserts, the other five dishes were barely touched. I do remember that the fish was severly overcooked and I do remember them giving us fresh tomatoes on one plate in January (they were hard as a rock).

5. The straw that broke the camels back had to do with the wine. Our wine was not kept at our table, since it was the size of a postage stamp, but we were able to get our glasses filled without a huge amount of hassle. When we finished our entrees, I asked our waiter to bring over the rest of the wine (I estimated about 1.5 glasses left in the bottle). He claimed that our bottle was empty. After much arguing, he admitted that the bottle wasn't empty, but that he tossed it because he didn't think that we would want it for dessert. Whatever. He brought over the manager, I explained the situation to him, to which he replied, "Well, there is nothing that we can do about that now, it is already gone." He then walked away.

Like I said, this was years ago so the restaurant may have changed for the better since then. And, we may have just been there on an awful night with a few horrendous people helping us, but it caused me to never even think about going back there again.

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I'd have to say that RFD falls under this category of "never again." I should probably have known better than to eat there, but of course, a couple of beers deep, you make questionable food-related judgments. Also, the beer list is almost pedestrian at this point and I really find no other reason to want to go there anymore.

This might belong in the RFD thread, but the beer list is hardly "pedestrian". They don't get as many exciting taps as they used to (since the Brickskeller installed taps upstairs, many of the interesting kegs have headed over there), but the bottle list is still very respectable, and there are usually at least a few taps worth trying. It may not be my favorite place in town to drink beer, but it's far from my least favorite.

The food, however, I completely agree on.

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I hear nothing but nightmare stories about I Richi, mostly about the high cost for lousy food but moreover, the service. Tom S. mentioned that I Richi hasn't been good in....years, when a chatter wrote in to complain about a bad RW experience.

How does this place stay in business? Expense accounts??

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I hear nothing but nightmare stories about I Richi, mostly about the high cost for lousy food but moreover, the service. Tom S. mentioned that I Richi hasn't been good in....years, when a chatter wrote in to complain about a bad RW experience.

How does this place stay in business? Expense accounts??

I think that they might get a lot of tourist business. The above mentioned award was in a publication targeted at tourists, and that included a large ad for i Ricchi. Most long lasting businesses know where their target audiences lie, and if these ads didn't work I doubt that they would continue to buy them.

My one and only experience with I Ricchi left me feeling like I just got screwed in a fern bar (and not in a fun way). Details are blury (it has been about 7 years), but I do remember heavy under-cooked gnocchi, bland sauces, and a pretentious staff.

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I hear nothing but nightmare stories about I Richi, mostly about the high cost for lousy food but moreover, the service.

in the early days, the food was good but the service was deficient in two of our three visits, including a wait at the bar that extended long, long past our reservation time -- with no apologies. on one visit, i recall the waiter steering us away from lower-priced selections on the menu that sounded good.

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