First time in:
Diner staff outnumbered the three occupied tables, about 1:1 staff to patron, yet it took over eight minutes to be acknowledged after we were seated. Another ten minutes passed before waitress returned to ask if we'd like something to drink, and we told her we were ready to order. Which we did. Then had to call her back over ten minutes later to tell her we were still thirsty. Then again ten minutes later to inquire about our appetizers. Ten minutes later, I dropped a fiver on the table for the soda and iced tea and we left. "Buh bye" she said behind us.
Uh huh.
Being this was a very new establishment, we gave benefit of doubt and came back six months later.
Second time in:
With last visit still in our memories, we grabbed our own menus on the way in and were assertive about getting beverages right away, which we did. We noted an intricate, circular bar under construction, most definitely out of place in the remnants of the previous Coco's decor. Maintaining our proactive stance, we placed our appetizer order when the drinks were served, and to the waitress' credit, she returned five minutes later and took our entree order. Olrighty then, this might work out this time.
Nope.
Our entrees arrived 15 minutes later, her prime rib an unfamiliar Fifty Shades of Grey, my fish filet a similar hue along it's curiously curled edges, with steamed vegetables that drooped--maybe oozed--between the tines of the lifted fork. We dared tread where radar warned not--DANGER WILL ROBINSON--to sample our respective dead creatures, both visibly skeptical as we sampled that first cautious bite.
Ow boss...
Pretty Wife is a carnivore complete, but would not dare chance another, choosing instead to focus on the baked potato. I was relieved she found it palatable, and I ate about one-third of my fish product before pushing my plate to the edge of the table.
Waitress came by to check in, said our appetizers are coming right up. The ensuing chortles lifted the somber mood, we said we'll take the bill instead, and chortles became laughter when she asked if we'd like a to-go box.
Yeah, she comped the bill, so we tipped her enough to make her blush.
Third time in:
Yes, we tried once more.
Fast-forward 4 years, I'm dog-beat after work, Pretty Wife wants me to bring home some take-out. I have this coupon book, see, one you buy to support a favored local charity, and there was a buy-one for the Capitola Diner right next door to the bank I was at. Hmm... They can't muck up a burger and fries, right? They've been around almost five years now...
Inside I go, order the burger and fries for Pretty Wife, some Buffalo Wings and onion rings for me and produce the coupon. "No problem" smiles Cutie Petootie, then struggles for seven minutes to process the payment. Order is up, bagged to go, and I'm standing here waiting to pay when over walks the guy who must be in charge, I think we shall call him Dick. Dick asks what is wrong, I say nothing's wrong, food's ready and I just want to pay. Cutie tells Dick she's struggling with the coupon, Dick says, "What coupon?", then frowns and contorts, and Dick says, "That's because it's not valid this order." "Huh?" say I, says Dick, "Not valid to-go". "Really?" says I. "Can I see?" He flings it at me--FLIPPIN' FLINGS IT AT ME--and though the red hue is tough to see through, I point out there's no such disclaimer. "It's the rule" says Dick, "Not valid for to go. That will be $17.67, cash or card?"
That's it, no more, I can't take it this way, and Dick just poked the wrong man the wrong time. Dick earned my rebuke, so Dick got my rebuke: a vulgarity-strewn clinic in customer relations, and a very loud warning to arriving customers that the man who inspired this ruckus be Dick, and a dick he do be through and hooded. I then warned them too 'bout the grey cuts of beef-stuff, the sketchy fish product, and schooled them on the scent of e-coli. Dick became twitchy, blood rushing to his head, and I soothed Miss Petootie with praise for her tolerance of compensatory bullies like Dick. "Don't be scared" I assured her, "he'll back down to those cooks, even you if you push him, like he will to me now that he has my attention. And yes Dick" I whispered, "you have it in full."
I stopped then. Dick never met my eyes, muttered an order to Cutie, then left her alone there to deal with my mess as he retreated to his Liberace-themed bar in a droop. A droopy Dick leaving a young girl to deal with the bellicose man by herself.
The cooks held my eyes though, ready were they, and Cutie looked to them and smiled with us all.
Your experience might be better, must be better, 'cause I doubt it could get any worse. I tried though, I did, three times, two too many, and I would not go back there a fourth if allowed. But don't let that stop you. I'm just an a-hole, and we all know that a-holes and Dick don't always play together too well. Except maybe penitentiaries, or Dick's crystal-strewn bar at the diner. read more