The Twilight Zone
"Where should we go to eat this evening?", my wife turned and asked me as we headed out of the neighborhood. Though only Tuesday, it felt like a Friday as we'd worked through much of the weekend trying to catch up from a hectic work week. We had only been back to the Temple area for a few short months, but at last we were beginning to fall back into old routines despite the two-year absence. BJ's had become our go-to for dining in the area over the previous years because it had proven to be the singular establishment in the area that provided decent food and service for the price, and to do it consistently.
However tonight seemed special and I impulsively said "How about Pignettis?" It had been over 2 1/2 years since we had returned to one our favorite spots in the area. At one time we had been wine club members as well as restaurant regulars, yet we hadn't made it back since our recent return. Tonight, would be that special night.
Well, I was mistaken. The night was not in fact special. As we drove up to park, I was initially surprised by the light traffic in the Temple square, but then found myself tickled with the thought "Wow! What are the odds?! We're getting rock star parking!"
The odds as it turned out...we're perhaps not so great. Little did I know that we had entered into the Twilight Zone.
As we drove past the empty patio seating I remember telling myself I thought it strange that there were tumbleweeds blowing though the outdoor dining area. I thought for a minute I spotted a dog that looked like Toto in the light breeze...but I couldn't be sure.
I snagged the fortuitous front row parking, and my family and I darted past the throngs of tumbleweeds to enter the front door. The young woman, who for the sake of the story we'll call the "hostess" looked up with a surprised look on her face and asked to see my ID. I responded that there didn't appear to be a need for this and that I'd like a table for three. My words echoed deeply off the faux stone walls of the dark and dank establishment. The girl, perhaps a lost daughter of a bar manager or something, asked if I had a reservation. I again sensed that something was off. A glitch in the matrix. Something. But I couldn't quite spot what the issue was. I did what all fools do and ignored that inner voice. They squeezed us into a nearly empty dining room that had one round table in the corner occupied by 7 middle aged farmers discussing the price of bacon and cotton that evening. We were seated next to them, I assume because they thought we were the type of family that is keenly interested in such topics.
The sweet brunette waitress of 53 years old, snapped her gum as she asked if we'd care for a wine menu. After requesting a ripasso, she returned with a bottle that had the eerie appearance of an actual bottle of wine that you might sell at a restaurant...but appearances can be deceiving. As was the case this evening. For the first time in my life, when I tasted a sample of wine, after much ceremony with the bottle and presentation, I involuntarily reflexively spat out the putrid mouthful of viscous liquid all over the waitress in front of me. She demurred and stated she would send out the Sommelier to set things right. A brief 30 minutes later Armando came out with a replacement bottle that reminded of the Christmas wine they used to pass in church in small town New England. I saw his face morph, or twitch again, something that suggested to me once more that things were off. Yes, the building looked familiar but something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
Our appetizers arrived with little fanfare, the crab fondue which resembled neither crab nor fondue, was thin in the way that an orphanage that lives off donations thins and serves its gruel on Sundays for the orphans. The mussels, a previous favorite, immediately brought with them an odor that seemed to be like a hidden door in the floor that conceals the numerous decaying bodies of a serial killer, and a flavor that reminded one of what perhaps the flesh on such a foul smelling thing might taste like, were circumstances ever so unfortunate.
At this point I was looking for the cameras. But no one knows of Candid camera anymore, and I am old. I looked for something to explain what was happening. One of those 'Screw your Buddy Over' punk videos or something. But emptiness stared back up at me. The food arrived, posthumously, as I contemplated the miserable path of customer care in my lifetime. The once green beans, tortured to death in an oven, stared up at me like lifeless seaweed on a winter shore. I attempted to wrangle one but its cold lifeless grip slipped from my grasp. The waitress had reached retirement age before the check arrived and seemed to be demonstrating for worker's rights in some way by studiously ignoring us whenever we were looking for any semblance of service or assistance. read more