Today is Valentine’s Day — one of the restaurant industry’s three busiest days of the year (Mothers’ Day and New Year’s Eve make up the rest). This is amateur hour. Most of the clientele on this day aren’t regular diners, and this is one of the special days out of the year they treat themselves to a nice date.
And restaurants take advantage of this: cramming every available table for two in every nook and cranny of the establishment. Creating tight turn times for tables, so couples can’t stay and linger over drinks and conversations lit by candlelight. After all, restaurants are businesses (something everyone forgets) and this is one of the days that needs to bring in some dough.
This is one of the reasons I don’t like Valentine’s Day. Besides all the usual corporate holiday arguments, it’s destroyed any concept I had for romance on this day. I’m that server who wants to make sure you drank, ate and paid within 1 hour and 45 minutes, otherwise the rest of the reservations are going to back up. Sorry, but I have other guests to wait on long after your meal is over.
That is not that dining experience I would want to have, but the demand for reservations on this day forces businesses to accommodate the influx of people in ways they normally wouldn’t practice. If you don’t book ‘em, you lose ‘em, and that’s the way business works.
So if you have someone special in your life, and you choose to celebrate Valentine’s Day, take them out to dinner on Feb. 15 for a romantic dinner instead. Don’t subject them to the madness the day before. This way you can have a quiet table at the time you want, enjoy your company, and have the evening you would want to have. If I'm your server, I’d be more than happy to make that happen for you too.
February 14, 2012
February 10, 2012
In sickness and in health
A three day weekend lay before us, and it would be glorious: a road trip to Ridgeway and Ouray where we could relax in hot springs, eat and drink at breweries, and be merry.
We went left in the morning and arrived late in the afternoon in the town of Ridgeway. Everything was going according to plan — hot tubbing, then pizza and microbrews. We made our way back to the hotel room to relax and rest up for the remainder of our planned adventures.
And then it came with a vengeance, as food poisoning always does at 3 a.m. I sprinted to the bathroom and made it just in time for the violent sequence of vomiting and other lovely symptoms associated with the affliction to rear their ugly heads.
At first I thought I’d feel better after puking, and went back to bed hoping my health would improve by morning. I settled back under the covers, closed my eyes, and prepared my white blood cells for battle.
Within the hour, the bacteria and my immune system were in a full scale war, and the battlefield location had been selected: the bathroom. After a while, I even debated bringing a blanket and pillow in there, so I wouldn’t have to sprint at every impulse of impending spewage.
As night turned slowly into day, I began to realize that I would not be able to fully enjoy our weekend. Soda water, canned chicken noodle soup and Saltines would make up my dining experience, and the hotel room would be my spa.
I felt awful. My foolish fast food choice — which was causing utter turmoil inside of me — also sabotaged the weekend.
So I laid in bed the whole time, and Tyler dutifully stuck by me. Since he was perfectly healthy, I felt guilty for not being able to go and enjoy our time off together. He heated up soup for me, went to the store, and made sure I had plenty of beverages to replenish my system. I told him to leave me and enjoy his time off, but he insisted on staying. I don’t know what felt worse: my sickly state, or ruining his weekend too. He had just worked 10 days in a row, and planned this awesome trip for us, I couldn’t help but feel guilty.
By the next morning, I felt better. I could keep down food, and the nausea had subsided. This was great timing because we had to drive five hours to make it home that evening. We made it home, not having experienced the trip we wanted to, but at least we had a memorable one.
We went left in the morning and arrived late in the afternoon in the town of Ridgeway. Everything was going according to plan — hot tubbing, then pizza and microbrews. We made our way back to the hotel room to relax and rest up for the remainder of our planned adventures.
And then it came with a vengeance, as food poisoning always does at 3 a.m. I sprinted to the bathroom and made it just in time for the violent sequence of vomiting and other lovely symptoms associated with the affliction to rear their ugly heads.
At first I thought I’d feel better after puking, and went back to bed hoping my health would improve by morning. I settled back under the covers, closed my eyes, and prepared my white blood cells for battle.
Within the hour, the bacteria and my immune system were in a full scale war, and the battlefield location had been selected: the bathroom. After a while, I even debated bringing a blanket and pillow in there, so I wouldn’t have to sprint at every impulse of impending spewage.
As night turned slowly into day, I began to realize that I would not be able to fully enjoy our weekend. Soda water, canned chicken noodle soup and Saltines would make up my dining experience, and the hotel room would be my spa.
I felt awful. My foolish fast food choice — which was causing utter turmoil inside of me — also sabotaged the weekend.
So I laid in bed the whole time, and Tyler dutifully stuck by me. Since he was perfectly healthy, I felt guilty for not being able to go and enjoy our time off together. He heated up soup for me, went to the store, and made sure I had plenty of beverages to replenish my system. I told him to leave me and enjoy his time off, but he insisted on staying. I don’t know what felt worse: my sickly state, or ruining his weekend too. He had just worked 10 days in a row, and planned this awesome trip for us, I couldn’t help but feel guilty.
By the next morning, I felt better. I could keep down food, and the nausea had subsided. This was great timing because we had to drive five hours to make it home that evening. We made it home, not having experienced the trip we wanted to, but at least we had a memorable one.
January 28, 2012
I'm not going to the Super Bowl
A few weeks ago I had the afternoon of Sara: The 49ers were playing the Saints, I bought a DiGiorno pizza, a six pack of Snow Day by New Belgium Brewery, and I had a Saturday night off. All the ingredients were there for a perfect evening, so I settled in to the couch ready to cheer on my team.
For those of you who watched the game, or saw the highlights, know what a crazy win the Niners pulled off. When I came into work the next day, my co-workers were excited to talk about the miraculous win.
“Vernon Davis is my hero!” I said. “We’ve definitely got the talent to go to the Super Bowl.”
This is where my manager Chad (who only watches tennis) interjected: “Why are you using “we?” It’s not like you played in the game last night.”
All season long, he’s corrected me on using the first person narrative when rehashing events on Sundays. For some reason, I’ve had a really hard time adjusting my speech. I’ll catch myself halfway through a sentence and disjointedly redirect my narrative back to third person. After being harassed for 17 weeks during the regular season, one would think this wouldn’t be a problem and more.
But it still is. After the game last week against the Giants, I still find myself saying “we were soooooo close,” and “this was our year.” And why is that? Is it because of my personal history with team sports, or the collective mindset that comes along when rooting for your team?
The closest explanation I could find for my behavior is what experts call deindividuation, which is “the process by which group members become less aware of themselves as individuals and less concerned about being socially evaluated.” Sociologists have used this to describe rioting after games, behavior in a sports venue, and the lack of social constraints occur during some trash talking sessions.
Even though I found many possibilities, I don’t think I can ultimately answer why I use the narrative I do. All can do is hope things will turn out differently for the 49ers and me next season.
For those of you who watched the game, or saw the highlights, know what a crazy win the Niners pulled off. When I came into work the next day, my co-workers were excited to talk about the miraculous win.
“Vernon Davis is my hero!” I said. “We’ve definitely got the talent to go to the Super Bowl.”
This is where my manager Chad (who only watches tennis) interjected: “Why are you using “we?” It’s not like you played in the game last night.”
All season long, he’s corrected me on using the first person narrative when rehashing events on Sundays. For some reason, I’ve had a really hard time adjusting my speech. I’ll catch myself halfway through a sentence and disjointedly redirect my narrative back to third person. After being harassed for 17 weeks during the regular season, one would think this wouldn’t be a problem and more.
But it still is. After the game last week against the Giants, I still find myself saying “we were soooooo close,” and “this was our year.” And why is that? Is it because of my personal history with team sports, or the collective mindset that comes along when rooting for your team?
The closest explanation I could find for my behavior is what experts call deindividuation, which is “the process by which group members become less aware of themselves as individuals and less concerned about being socially evaluated.” Sociologists have used this to describe rioting after games, behavior in a sports venue, and the lack of social constraints occur during some trash talking sessions.
Even though I found many possibilities, I don’t think I can ultimately answer why I use the narrative I do. All can do is hope things will turn out differently for the 49ers and me next season.
December 18, 2011
December 13, 2011
Christmas tree
This year we had a much easier time traveling down Forest Service roads than we did last year. We did run into a lot of ice on the roads (as seen above) but Moses was the only one who had any reservations about walking on the ice.
Now we have a fully decorated tree that we didn't have to find at Home Depot this year. And Tyler eventually did get his Christmas wish from last year too: a big burly truck.
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