May I Get You Something From the Bar?

Supercilious swishy waiters, incompetent waitresses with ‘tude … even badly behaving baristas... you think it's easy dining out these days? No siree Bob. Sit back while I rant, and you can indulge in a little schadenfreude

We arrived at Stella – the highly touted eatery in Boston’s chi-chi South End – and despite the fact that we presented ourselve promptly for our reservations, we were perp walked past empty tables to the back of the restaurant. Right next to the restrooms. Happens to me all the time. I don’t think I look like the lady in that ubitiquous “gotta go” commercial – well, maybe a little.

Nonetheless, I protested and we were seated in a choicer spot and settled in, eager for for drinks, catching up with our friends and dinner - in that order. A perusal of itssignature cocktail menu revealed a unique take on my fave – the Sidecar. So I was discreetly salivating as our waitress approached the table; we cocked our ears in unison for those magical words - “May I get you something from the bar?”

But noooo! She opened with “I’d like to tell you about tonight's specials," and prepared to recite a litany of ingredients and processes. Horrified, I stopped her faster than you could say "arugula" and politely (honest) told her that we would like to have drinks first. With a slight air of disdain and a moue, she responded that she would take our drink order after she told us about the specials. Now I was pissed. “Actually,” I retorted, “we really would like to have our drinks now. I’ll have a Southern Sidecar, pul-eaze.” My companions followed suit; she sulkily noted our orders and then turned on her heel.

The delivery of our forty bucks worth of libations (Stella’s word – not mine) came with a hearty serving of ‘tude which led me to question – perhaps before she was totally out of earshot – her customer service ethic. That prompted a glare from Mr. Connie, who is no milquetoast, but harbors an inordinate fear of disgruntled waitstaff spitting in his food.

Are we having fun yet?

Our round of drinks, (my Southern Sidecar - Maker's Mark bourbon shaken with lemon juice and triple sec was delish)– improved our collective mood. And we placed our dinner orders with our still petulant waitress. After that she was done with us.

Our starters and entrees were served nicely by a food runner; but try and get a little fresh ground pepper for our beet and goat cheese salads or a bit of grated cheese for my tagliatelle bolognese – no luck. Although I must say, everything we had was excellent- not that anyone ever asked. My husband was happy enough that he didn’t detect any you-know-what glazing his halibut. The jury is still out on its accompanying potato and summer pea ragout.

Although we were not camels in the desert, let’s just say they don’t push the drinks on you at Stella. We did prevail upon Ms. Moue for some wine with dinner, but gave up on any idea of lingering on for a digestif. And I'm sure there would have been no chance of getting a nice Nutty Irishman with whipped cream, a shot of green Crème de Menthe and maybe a marchino cherry. Oh, well.

Once outside, I was sorely tempted to bellow a plaintive S-T-E-L-L-A at its yellow awning but I refrained, and opted to send them a very courteous email to decry our treatment. In response, the silence was deafening.

S-T-E-L-LA….