The issue of Sanitary Service

Try to think of a restaurant venue that brandishes all of the following amaranthine service praxes that we have come to love:

– Features singing and dancing wait staff every thirty minutes during primetime.

– Serves your ketchup in a smiley-face.

– Creates grilled-to-order hand-pressed hamburgers alongside hand-dipped real ice cream milkshakes.

– Features table-side jukeboxes and free nickles from service staff.

And finally,

– TWIRLS YOUR STRAWS!

Of course, the establishment in question is Lake Forest, CA based “Johnny Rockets” and any desultory reader of this blog should have figured out that a Meltdown in service has occurred on more than one occasion with the twirling of straws.  First, let’s be clear;  Rockets does not produce the most consistent or appetizing food and must make up for this shortfall with quirky service lagniappes (term inserted for our Southern readers).  Second, these perks are both common and expected by all guests who visit the venue a second time or further.

Case in point:

From Rocket’s Guest Promise:

OUR GUEST PROMISE:

• Say “hello” and offer a smile to every Guest we see.
• Serve the freshest, highest quality simple All-American fare.
• Cheerfully serve Guests promptly in a sparkling clean restaurant.
• Dance, twirl straws and serve ketchup with a smile.
• Handle Guest needs right here and now.

Also, please view Rocket’s desperately platudinous and low-budget flash animation that proudly flaunts all of the above italicized “promises.”

The hopes and dreams of the VP involved in delivering this promise came crashing down when Exquisite Service visited the [new but already] tired Rockets on 20th and Pennsylvania NW in Washington, DC.

Twirling Straws? WTF?

If you’ve made it this far through this particular blog entry without storming off to your aging Webster’s in an attempt to discredit the author’s use of terminology that doesn’t even appear in your most vivid chimeras, then you should be aware of what the act of “Twirling Straws” is… but just in case your Monocle is a bit Foggy from last night’s escapades, let us draw it out for you:

Now, obviously the staff does not remove the entire device from the container like these untrained gentlemen do.  In addition, the actual “twirl” occurs as one lifts the straw plunger slowly out of the container, gently twisting (or twirling) it to allow the straws to fall into place neatly and uniformly.  One does not simply plunge the device up and down in an obscenely grotesque manner (all the while filming his indecency) as demonstrated in the video above.

The story continues.

May we present, The 2000 Pennsylvania Ave NW Johnny Rocket’s Straw Twirl:

A MELTDOWN of epic proportions.

With some text overlay, this photo could actually make it onto the Fail Blog, it’s just that horrendous.  So what exactly is going on here and why are the straws failing to fan and twirl?  Clearly, the straws are individually wrapped in plastic and thus have become too bulky, too long, and too intertwined to properly “fan out;” instead they remain in a solid vertical column which neither provides the aesthetic effect we’re looking for nor enables the signature “twirl” to take place.  Upon interrogating the manager as to the reason for this calamitous fail, he exclaims, “It’s Sanitary!”

True, individually wrapped straws are more sanitary than loose straws but come on… they’re in a closed jar!  How bad can it be?

The issue in which we are now presented forces a debate that may never be resolved.  Is this a Memory or a Meltdown?  Has the staff of this Johnny Rocket’s been proactive in preventing our imminent demise from surface-based pathogens?  Or are they just robbing us that service lagniappe we’ve come to expect?

The answer is not up for debate.  The staff here are fools to think that the burgers keep guests coming back for more.  IT’S THE STRAWS, STUPID!  Let us have our beloved “twirl!”

The FLL Case Study in Exquisite Service

Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport.  Some people love it, most people just think of it as Broward County’s HELL.  To be fair, this airport is preferable to the hustle and bustle of MIA, and your flight has a good chance of on-time performance so long as you are not flying amongst hurricanes in the late Summer/Fall.

I digress… Be not bamboozled by the post title, for this anecdote has diddly to do with flying, airplanes, on-time performance, or aviation at all!  Friends, we have met the ultimate scofflaw, and her name is “Veronica*.”

Veronica’s abhorrent ingress into my life occurred during an otherwise equable sally from Lauderdale to Washington, DC.  It involved a catastrophic decision to dine at “Vito’s Gourmet Deli” and, more importantly, to eat a Meatball Sandwich.  Please take a moment to picture the perfect meatball sandwich in  your head.  Actually, it does not matter what picture came to mind, as long as it involved copious amounts of white bubbly melted cheese (and if you specifically pictured “White American Cheese” please leave this blog immediately, and send an email to admin [searchforservice@gmail.com] so we can subtract one visitor from our now tarnished stats.)  It may not look exactly like the picture below but should be close:

Courtesy voodoolily.blogspot.com

This is NOT up for discussion; the true Gentleman will insist that there are only two ingredients of paramount importance to make the quintessential sandwich:  MEAT AND CHEESE.  Furthermore, a meatball sandwich requires said cheese to be melted and plentiful.

Vito’s is a simple counter-service deli operated by the Delaware North Companies that featured an unhappy employee at the register named Veronica.  As the time to order drew near, a customer three spaces ahead ordered a meatball sandwich.  One should always consider such an event a great twist of fate; a sort of ‘preview’ of your dining experience to come.  Just as Veronica asked, “Can I help you with something…?” the meatball sandwich was delivered to the gentleman at the front of the queue.  After one glance, he removed a large rope from his carry-on baggage, looped it over the fluorescent lamp above, hopped up on a table, and began tying a hangman’s knot.  Yes, it was that depressing… Anemic amounts of impossible-to-melt grated Parmesan cheese on dry meatballs with a par-baked roll.

After a 15 minutes of psyching myself out about meatball sandwiches I was determined to press forward and correct the issues I observed with the preview sandwich and get a properly executed Meatball sub.  The conversation that ensued went something like this:

“Meatball Sandwich, please!  Please toast the bread and add some extra sauce.  In addition, what kind of cheese is available?”

Veronica: “It comes with Mozzarella”

“Perfect! Extra Mozzarella please!”

V: “$9.50”

Sounds simple enough and the exchange was brief, to the point, and, yes, appropriate for an airport deli.  The sandwich was delivered in about 5 minutes swimming in sauce with a toasted roll, but alas, grated Parmesan cheese.

“Excuse me, may I have some mozzarella for this sandwich?”

V takes the sandwich and exclaims: “It’s on there, NEXT”

“No, no this is Parmesan, I need some Mozarella, you know, the kind that MELTS”

V: “It is mozzarella, and that’s all we have”

“This is definitely not mozzarella, it’s finely grated in a powder and not melting, you can’t even grate mozzarella like this!”

V raises her voice: “What is it you want from me?  What are you trying to get? you got what you asked for!”

“I just want some mozzarella for my sandwich; you know, a meatball sandwich with melted cheese! That’s why I asked you before I ordered what kind of cheese is on it.  This is NOT mozzarella, and if you want to continue to argue about it you can show me a package of it with the label on”

V: “Fine I will do that right now, SIR!”  She leaves the queue of about 10 people to go to the back room, rummages awhile, and returns, “There aren’t anymore boxes of it.  That cheese is all we use and it’s mozzarella so you’re not getting your money back”

“I don’t want my money back I want melted cheese on my damned sandwich” (Looked over to the Hispanic man preparing the dishes, currently prepping a personal pizza by adding shredded mozzarella cheese to a frozen and sauced crust).  “May I have some of that (Pointing) cheese in side cup so I can put it on my sandwich?”

V: “Sir, that cheese is for the pizzas, you can’t use it on your sandwich.  What’s the DIFFERENCE anyway? There’s cheese on it.”

Take a moment to let it all sink in.  If you are steaming at home, just imagine the Armageddon at the deli!  At this point, all control was lost and a yelling match ensued between me and Veronica.  Very rarely will a gentleman loose his cool in such situations so we can skip the unproductive pissing contest that developed.  I hastily read the sign on the register: “Did we forget to give you a receipt? Please call 1-800-xxx-xxxx.”  Quickly dialing the number on my BlackBerry, I made my way back to my assigned gate.  I left a message for the manager in charge of hospitality, calmly letting him know of the incident that occurred.  I did not ask for anything in return but left my phone number if he had any questions.  I recommended Veronica be fired.

Fast forward to Washington, DC two days later;  BlackBerry lights up with a suspicious area code.  Begrudgingly accepting the call, I was greeted by a cheerful “Steven*” from Fort Lauderdale Airport.  At this point I thought I had left a bag at the airport and had no idea what he could be calling about, but he set the record straight and began quizzing me on the incidents that transpired on that dreadful day.  I explained to him that one envisions and expects a meatball sandwich with melted gooey cheese, and painted a mental image for him of my choppers lacerating the crusty bread, seizing a large chunk of seasoned ground beef, lips pursing around the remaining strings of cheese that form upon the withdrawal of the delicious sandwich from my face now blotchy with fresh marinara sauce.  A fellow gentleman, Steven paused to reflect a moment, no doubt salivating at the mere thought of such a heavenly culinary experience.  He agreed with me about the cheese, informed me Veronica has been disciplined, and asked for my address.  One week later, a letter arrived:

A note from Steven offering sincere apologies for my terrible experience, $15 dollars in Chili’s currency, and a Postal Money Order for $10 to compensate me for my $9.50 Meatball Sandwich.

MELTDOWN TURNED TO MEMORY.

At FLL, this Delaware North has a captive audience.  The only alternative passengers have is to bring their own food.  Steven did not have to go the extra step to fix this problem, but he is no doubt passionate about what he does, and perhaps even a reader of this very blog.  I may not dine at Vito’s again, but I will definitely perpetuate this experience within the industry.

*All names have been changed.

The Coca-Cola Miscalculation

By miscalculation, we mean FAILURE.  Few products are capable of making the Exquisite Failures of all-time shortlist, but Coca-Cola’s “Dasani” product is definitely one of them.

Many have tried to provide elucidations as to the concept of “Bottled Water.”  Those of us who read Exquisite blogs, partake in gentlemenly activities like Squash, drinking, and general tomfoolery, dine on authentic cuisine, own a three-piece suit, and on more than one occasion have shared a bed with a woman whose net-worth is above 500k, can understand that bottled water is a necessity.  In any dining environment of true substance, one is given the opportunity to indulge in bottled or ‘iced’ water.  The word “Tap” should never be mentioned, as it guilts a guest into choosing the bottle option no matter what.  However, if the bottle option on hand is Dasani, always opt for tap.  Bottled water should be an escape from the city water that comes out of your home sinks; an on-the-go alternative to Brita or Pur water filtration; a handy method of carriage of H2O that can be quickly disposed of before the big meeting at work.  So the necessity of manufacturing water in a bottle is unquestionable; but could anyone simply bring a glass to their kitchen sink, fill it with water, cap it, and sell it?  Of course not.  There are a couple dynamics called taste and quality that actually matter.  Dasani, however, seems to be the exception to this rule.

PUBLIC WATER SOURCE

The above phrase is now listed on all bottles of Pepsi’s Aquafina brand.  Talk about corporate responsibility.  Dasani refuses to write any such thing, yet the contents of each tumid bottle is overloaded with briefly filtered water packed with chemicals and additives for safety.  We would argue that Dasani is known for its bad taste and pointless existence, yet it edges other bottled waters out in exclusive Coca-Cola contract locations and restaurants.  When it is the only water available at  your dining location, are you really going to complain?  Without fresh-brewed iced tea, we are forced to endure the gritty city taste of Dasani.

This picture sums up Dasani’s arete in the world of bottled water and consumer beverages:

Dasani

Complete MELTDOWN.

Don’t pay for public tap water in  a bottle, just turn on your sink and save your money.

Beachfire Cheese Bulletin

From Dictionary.com:

Au Gratin:  Cooked or baked with a topping of either browned bread crumbs and butter or grated cheese, or with both.

So what exactly are we eating here?  To me, Bleu Cheese Au Gratin translates to “Bleu Cheese baked in an oven covered with cheese and breadcrumbs.”

Clearly, it says scalloped potatoes are involved.  I mentioned to my server at Beachfire Grill that usually a dish like this is called “Potatoes Au Gratin” and we would discover in the description that the cheese of choice is Blue (or ‘Bleu’ if you’re a second-rate restaurant trying to be exquisite).  Instead of accepting defeat and recognizing her life and career as one half-assed committment after another; this server begins to argue the definition of “Au Gratin” as meaning “With Potato.”

A quick glance at my BlackBerry solved the debate quicker than she could ask for her last check to be made out to “cash.”

8 iPhone Users are Rich

While Apple’s opprobrious quality control department sits on their thrones counting gold coins reminiscent of a Prince John’s Nottingham, iPhone users are wondering what the hell is going on with the outwardly bizarre applications coming available from third parties.  In the latest instance of tomfoolery, users noticed the “I Am Rich” application recently available.  There are many gentlemanly iPhone customers out there who would naturally gravitate toward this application.  The mere thought of a dancing icon on your main menu that reads “I Am Rich” is enough to induce a pavlovian effect on the true gentleman.  However, the price tag of $1000 is enough to snap out of said trance and take a good long lucubration on the matter.  After all, $1000 can buy a lot of Oyster Guinness Bombs.

So what is the functionality of this application? Status aside, absolutely nothing.  Still, within a short time after being added to the application selection on Apple’s Store, 8 daring gentlemen bought the app, generating some serious revenue for the “developer.”

Apple has since learned about the largely successful scam and has removed the application’s availability.  But wait… can Apple do that?  This developer supposedly paid the fees to develop and post his app.  It was allowed on the store, began to generate money, then was pulled.

I think Apple is jealous of offering an application that costs more than their device itself.  This simple case of covetousness earns Apple an A+ in MELTDOWNS.

The BJ’s Brewhouse Incident

Finding happy hour specials in South Orange County, CA is like trying to find a Geoduck outside of Puget Sound. Presumable good luck turns bad and bad luck turns into early retirement. For when a gentleman is fortunate enough to have a clear schedule, one may find him passed out at 11pm with an overturned glass of scotch and a broken monocle strewn across his abdomen. However, when a gentleman does happen upon a locale that remains open long enough to attract brazen strumpets and other women of the night, he must indulge.

BJ’s Restaurant and Brewhouse offers a wide variety of original beer on tap. The late night happy hour, available from 10pm until close, features tasty 1/2 price mini pizzas and $2.00 off other appetizers. At first glance one would consider this to be “good luck” but as we have just learned, good luck always turns bad.

The fun began when I ordered my Blackened Chicken Alfredo Mini Pizza at 11:25pm. From the ghastly look on my server’s face, I could tell that the kitchen would not be happy with making one more delicious mini pizza. Although this pizza is self contained in its own pan and probably dirties a total of one dish and one utensil, what chef wouldn’t want to consummate his clean-up duties early, get under a vat of sudsy ale, and open the spigot?

In short, my mini pizza came out with the cheese lopsided and oozing off one side which is not the end of the world. The minor meltdown actually occurred with the ever important cutting (or in this case, extirpation) of my pizza. There was but ONE incision 3/4 of the way across my pizza, creating two unequal halves. Let me remind readers that the BJ’s Pizza Cutting handbook (that I wrote last night) clearly calls for TWO incisions perpendicular to each other and intersecting in the abosolute center of the mini pizza.

Alas, there seems to be a new sheriff in town, and he serves this pizza:

In search of functional doors

Was this a mechanical failure or simply a moron outside attempting to come in the wrong way.  Either way,

LAWSUIT AND MELTDOWN!

No Whales at the Dinner Table.

No cold dead fish for me, thanks though.

A trip to any Anheuser-Busch Park is not complete without participating in a dinner “show.”  As far-fetched as it sounds, the “Shamu Rocks Backstage Dinner” is one such “show” that needs attention.  I actually had got a nice warm feeling in my lower region when a comment card arrived at the finale of our extravagant repast.  Imagine my complete consternation when I flip the presumably anonymous card over to reveal none other than my table number! Pictured below is the front of the comment card.

This next photo shows the reverse of the comment card.  One can see the surreptitiously placed “39” in the upper left corner of the rear document (the reverse of the comment card).  In the foreground is my seating assignment which was hastily written on a piece of Shamu Rocks scrap paper.  If I may bird-walk for a moment here… The scrap paper was used in lieu of a card with blank lines – much like my locker assignment – because they didn’t have my party on the reservation sheet; an apparent ‘oversight’ on behalf of the hostess.  Around here we categorize such oversights as “Meltdowns.”

Of course, I went through quite the shilly-shally when deciding what to put on the card.  After all, a gentleman’s American Express is one of his most prized assets; an object of lust for an otherwise monogenic, cheap society, the number could be easily abused by an infuriated Host after reading my endless criticisms of food, service, and whales.

Overall, the show was not worthy of a repeat visit.  I noted on the comment card that the whales do more tricks behaviors during the Breakfast with Shamu experience.  An appreciated thought is including two frosty beers in the price of the dinner; unappreciated is the manager who approached me at the end of my meal with the creme de la creme of closing announcements, “Sir, you’re going to have to leave, I need to secure the area.”

MELTDOWN. Nothing more, nothing less.

I have no doubt that SeaWorld will get their comeuppance eventually, but to help them along the way I have attached a photo of a seating chart inadvertently left out for all to see.  Readers of SOES should request only the best seats and insist on excellence.  The poolside tables are the ones closest to the words “Shamu Rox!” while my table (39) was on the 2nd tier to the left.  Remember to contribute your experiences to the site so we can relive them.

Locker Snafu at Sea World

Mid-July marks the completion of my annual service call on Sea World San Diego. In years past, this facility has proven to be on top of its game. Employees were witnessed having personality and food was more than palatable. Due in no small part to an excellent hospitality program run by Anheuser-Busch Parks, strolling through the breezy walkways whilst daydreaming to a plethora of smooth jazz has always been a welcome change to the hustle and bustle of traditional theme park sojournments. This year, however, it all came to a disastrous halt; starting with a new locker rental policy.

Upon my arrival to the locker area I was greeted by large red signs detailing the switch from trusty one-time use coin operated devices to all-day rentals. The sign directed me to the “Rental Center” in order to lease the compact metal space. Aside from the occasional requisition of a stroller after too many free beer samples at the A-B Hospitality Center, I never had use for the rental center and thus did not know where to find it. Moreover, the resourceful gentleman will always hijack strollers from small children as a first option, knowing full well it will be put to better use carting his own pickled mass into the Brewmaster’s club for additional beer samples.

After inquiring as to the whereabouts of the Rental Center I discovered it was merely around the corner from where I was standing. I came across a queue that was blocked by a portly gentleman at a fold-out table hovering over a stack of scrap paper. After attempting to shimmy past the table to get on line, I was told to see the rotund fellow first. He quickly handed me a handwritten paper with instructions on retrieving a locker then directed me to the queue.

It turns out lockers now cost $7.00 with a $5.00 key deposit (given I return with my original receipt and key). With haste, I paid the $12.00 and awaited the long sought after key. Waited and waited and waited. Apparently the large man at the fold out table had written a key number that they did not seem to have. The cashier (whose personality would suggest her entire family had passed away in the last hour) paid two visits to the fat man in an attempt to sort things out. Finally, I was handed my long sought-after key; this is where we lose all logic.

LOCKER #568

Or was it? Another hand written message revealed I was locker # 151 but key # 568.

COMPLETE AND UTTER MELTDOWN…