Bertucci’s Bombs

Pardon me, but I vent for a minute or two.

I should have known better, really. Dining while vegetarian is enough of a challenge, even now when most restaurants have two or three vegetarian items on the menu. But dieting while vegetarian and on a diet can sometimes push the limit. Particularly when you add incompetent service to the whole equation. Given all that, maybe I just shouldnt’ eat out at all.

The hubby and I got a babysitter and went out on a date this afternoon, on our third attempt to see Brokeback Mountain. (Third time was the charm, review to come a bit later.) Afterwards, we went out to dinner. Our usual place was closed for renovations, so we opted to dine at a nearby Bertucci’s. Things went south from there.

These days, when I know I’m going to be eating out, I plan accordingly. Whether it’s lunch or dinner, I usually make sure one of the other meals is lighter than usual. Since we planned to have an early dinner after the matinee, I opted for a light breakfast, and skipped the concession stand at the theater. I was hungry by the time we got to the restaurant, but I decided to play it safe. After a quick glace at the menu, I opted for the “Salad Vivaldi con Pollo & Bello” with two minor variations: hold the chicken (but keep the roasted portobello mushrooms) and put the dressing on the side.

Simple enough, I thought. Until our server brought me a salad with the dressing on the side, but without the roasted portobello mushrooms that were part fo the dish. Since I wanted something a little more interesting than a plate of mixed greens garnished with a few tomato wedges, onions and olives. I reminded our server of what I ordered and asked if she could bring me the mushroseparatelytely, which she said she would.

Problem solved, I thought. Until she brought back a small cup of sliced white mushrooms. Still not what I ordered, so I gave them to the hubby to put on his salad. Since I didn’t see our server, I waved over another server who was hanging at the host’s station, explained to him what I ordered and asked if he could bring me the roasted portobello mushrooms that go with the salad I ordered. And he said he would.

Mission accomplished, I thought. But the guy didn’t show up with the mushroom. Instead, our original server showed up. But she wasn’t bearing the portobello mushrooms that went with the salad I ordered. Instead, she was bearing an entirely new salad, with the same wrong mushrooms I’d given to the hubby before, and covered with dressing. (I’d ordered the dressing on the side so that I could control how much dressing I had with the salad.)

At this point, I had enough. I listen to her explanation, but didn’t give her a chance to put the new salad down. Instead, I placed the first salad on top of it, and explained why the second salad was even more wrong than the first. To her credit, she asked if I wananythinghign else from the menu. But I’d already ordered the lightest thing on the menu (that was still interesting) and they couldn’t get that right. I told her “no thanks” and that I’d just eat at home as I should have in the first place.

It’s frustrating to go out to eat and not be able to eat whatever I want, without having second thoughts. But it’s mildly infuriating to eat out under those circumstances and not get what I ordered when I finally do find something I can order with minimal regret.

On top of it all, we ended up waiting a long time for our check. So long, in fact, that we ended up leaving just enough money on the table to cover the bill and walking out. Frankly, I didn’t want to wait around to see if they’d have the sense to take remove the salad-they-never-got-right from our bill. I was half certain we’d get charged for it.

On the way out, I stopped at the host’s station and asked if they had “comment cards” for customers to give feedback. They didn’t. So, I grabbed a menu, opened it to the item I originally ordered, and explained to the three employees hanging out at the station the series of errors that let to my never getting what I ordered.

Blank stares. Suddenly I realized it was probably a small miracle that anyone in the place got anything they ordered, and how my slight deviations from the written menu was more than anyone in the building seemed to be able to handle.

Fortunately, the hubby came over and left the money with the still-staring-blankly employeers, and all I could manage to say as he ushered me out was that it had been a long time since I’d dined at Bertucci’s, and it will be much longer before I darken their door again. Not that it would matter much to them. I’m pretty sure they were still trying to figure out just what had happened, and were probably turning their open-mouthed stares on each other once we left.

Still, I think I’m going to copy and paste this a version of post into a letter and send it to the management, cc’d as far up the ladder as I can find addresses to send to, and suggest that they apply their passion for quality to their service as well as their food. After all, maybe that salad I ordered is really great, but I’d never know because I never got it.