Where's the Beef?

“Where do you want to go tonight?” Seven little words that will stop me in my tracks, bumfuzzle me, and, ultimately, induce panic and stress. It should be easy. How I long to be able to answer that question with “our place.” “Oh, I don’t know…our place is fine.” 

We don’t have an “our place.” I’m not sure it even exists. We have a whole lot of “uggh, no, I don’t want to go there” places. And then we have another group of places that are terrible, we ban them just long enough to forget how bad they were. We return and then remember why it’s been so long since we went there, and they’re right back on the list. 

In fifth grade, I had a school assignment to write about my favorite home-cooked meal. Now I am third generation, kitchen-challenged. I don’t know how to cook many dishes, and I don’t particularly want to learn. Just like my sweet mama before me and my MeMa before her. Thank goodness my husband was attracted to my stunning outward beauty, my wicked sense of humor, and my mind, as he certainly didn’t scan my culinary heritage and think “winner, winner, chicken dinner.” No, my family ate out. A lot. We dined at Shoney’s, back when it was decent and thriving, several times per week. So my essay was about my favorite dish – both in life and at Shoney’s – spaghetti. 

I wrote in detail (for a fifth grader) about the oval-shaped plate, the little slice of bread that came on the side, how I liked copious amounts of grated parmesan sprinkled on top, and how, on really great days, we ended the experience with a hot fudge cake. 

When the teacher called me up to her desk, I was sure it was to commend me on my comprehensive expose on Shoney’s and this meal. “She must want to ask if she can go with us next time,” I waxed to myself, “since I painted such a fantastic picture with words.” 

“Did you understand the assignment?” 

“Yes,” I answered, although my comprehension of sarcasm was slightly less formed. 

“Then what is this?” she asked, pointing to my paper on her desk. 

“It’s my report on my favorite meal.” 

“The assignment was to write about your favorite meal from home.” 

It was then that it hit me. All those TV shows I watched and loved that showed families sitting around a kitchen table, eating a meal lovingly prepared by the show’s matriarch…that actually happens out in the real world. 

I explained that my Mom, despite all of her other wonderful qualities, was not June Cleaver, and that, to me, Shoney’s was the closest thing to a home-cooked meal I was going to have. Probably with mixed pity and aggravation, she waved me away with a dismissing hand. I don’t remember the grade I received on the assignment. And I don’t remember ever harboring any resentment towards my Mom for not being that Mom. Instead, now, I’m that Mom. 

I cook occasionally. I enjoy it less than occasionally. So, we eat out. A lot. But it’s becoming more and more challenging to think of a place we actually enjoy. One that has healthier food options, that has something everyone will enjoy, that’s not too far of a drive, that is reasonably priced, and has good service. Now, is that so hard? Yes, the answer is a resounding yes. 

Too often, in our society, restaurants just slide by the seat of their chef’s pants. They phone it in. They marinade in mediocrity. We give them our hard-earned money and, in return, we get indifferent, inattentive service, food that’s made with less-than-fresh ingredients, that’s missing the key ingredient – love, and is just slopped on the plate, trough style. They might as well yell “soo-wee” at some of the places we’ve gone. We’re quick to leave a restaurant and say “never again,” but quickly, we start running out of choices. It’s a sad state when having a really great experience is the anomaly and not the norm. 

Some will tell us (and have) that our standards are too high. We’re too picky. We’re food snobs. This may be, to some extent, but I tell you, I don’t think wanting basic, decent food and service is aiming too high. 

My Restaurant Desires: 

• Pleasing atmosphere (can be dive-y if that’s the theme, but “nursing home” is never OK) 
• Diverse, robust choices (again, within a theme) without being too diversified. Have you ever seen the Cheesecake Factory menu? It will bring you to tears in 90 seconds and not in a good way. 
• Reasonably-priced. 
• Good food. It doesn’t have to be a three-Michelin-starred meal. I just want it to be the best it can be – whatever it is. If it’s a burger and fries, I want the fries crispy and the burger to be prepared the way I requested and with flavor. If it’s pasta, I want the pasta drained well before the sauce is added. These are not lofty dreams. 
• Friendly, attentive staff. I want to be greeted warmly upon my arrival. I chose to walk in there. I know how perilous the restaurant business is. Act like you’re happy to see me. Or, at the very least, don’t seem bothered. 

- I don’t want to wait for a table when I see a sea of open choices. 
- I don’t want anyone within striking distance of my food to be sniffling, hacking, or complaining about currently having the stomach bug (true story). 
- I promise to order clearly if you promise to bring me what I ordered. Let’s call that common courtesy. 
- Check back on me after the food has come out and fairly quickly. If I order pancakes and they don’t come out with butter, you checking on me in five minutes and then bringing me some ice-cold butter nine minutes later isn’t going to help me at all. 
- Watch my glass. If it’s half-full or less, go ahead and top me off or bring me another. 
- Don’t leave the check on the table along with my food. When you say, “I’ll check back on you but I’m just gonna leave this here,” that tells me “don’t let the door hit you” and “I’m heading out back to have a smoke and fight with my old man on the phone and you may or may not see me again.” 
- Lastly, and this one is hard to write and I almost didn’t, thus, why it’s here at the end. Be happy or at least pretend to be. I know you’re making minimum wage or close to it. I empathize that you have a whole lot going on that I don’t know about. This may be your second (or third!) job. You may be trying to get out of a bad situation. You may be a single mom with six kids. You may be trying desperately to put yourself through school so you can have a better life. But for now, this is your job. I’ve had jobs I didn’t like before, but I like to think that those whom I served had no idea of my true feelings. What happened to “if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right?” I’m afraid this is another social etiquette that has slipped the grasp of our next, much more entitled, generation. “What’s in it for me?” they ask sullenly. 

So the search continues for “our place.” I’m not giving up hope. I like to think it will be worth the wait and something we’ll look back at on and laugh. “Ha…remember when we used to eat slop before we found this place?”

Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward. You are serving the Lord Christ.

                                                                              -- Colossians 3:23-24