I don't know how I do it but I find myself at the receiving end of bad service at restaurants more times than I wish. For those of you that don't know me personally, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I'm not a prick, a difficult patron or a bad tipper. OK, not on all days. Alright, definitely not last Sunday when the latest episode of my run in with an Indian restaurant happened. But in hindsight, this was something that was waiting to happen and that it happened didn't surprise me the least.
Chaat Paradise is a restaurant in Mountain View along the famous El Camino Real. Tucked away in a corner of a mall, they are purveyors of North Indian food. I have in the past taken my business to them on many occasions. The prime motivation in choosing them over half a dozen other places right along El Camino Real is that we live a short distance from their establishment. Take away this advantage and there is no reason why I wouldn't go elsewhere as one can hardly tell them apart inasmuch as taste, quality and service are concerned.
Cut to this past Sunday and we were driving back home from somewhere and decided to pick up some food for dinner en route. Since we would have to pass Chaat Paradise on our way, we decided to go there. I placed my order with the manager at the cash register - some rotis and a couple of run-of-the-mill curries that wouldn't require fancy culinary maneuvers. The wait time, I was informed, was 15 minutes - par for a Sunday evening dinner time. I went back to my car and was passing the time trying to convince my kid that he could go back home to his toys very soon.
The food was not ready in 15 minutes. The manager rummaged through the few take away bags on the table behind the counter, checked with the kitchen and asked me to wait for ten more minutes. I go back a few years with this place and this was playing to the usual script. On time food was never their strong point. Back to the car and convincing an agitated kid expressing his burning desire to be set free from the car seat.
Fifteen minutes later, the food was still not ready. The manager checked the new take away bags, checked with the kitchen and came up to the register.
"Sir, there are many phone orders ahead of you. So it is going to take some more time." This in Hindi. I know just enough Hindi to know that this asshole had messed something up.
"But you knew this when you said 15 minutes right?" I was holding myself back. This wasn't the first time this has happened to me here and my patience was paper thin.
"I was only giving you an idea." This only confirmed that not only had he messed up but was trying to act smart. When I'm hungry and trying in vain to pacify my kid holed up in a parked car, someone trying to pontificate his sorry ass out of a fuck up of his own making in Hindi doesn't help the situation one bit.
Three options presented themselves:
1. Punch him in the face and storm out of the place. After dealing with the aftermath of course.
2. Demand a refund, go to another restaurant and spend more time than what would have taken to fix a homemade dinner.
3. Play along, wait for the food and go back home.
All things considered, option 3 seemed to be the prudent one to pursue and I came back to the car with the assurance that the kitchen had dropped everything else to prepare my order in five minutes.
Five minutes later, and by now I had spent close to 45 minutes just waiting for my damned order, the food is still missing. I'm trying to get the attention of the manager who is busy on the phone. He did a quick kitchen check and asked for more time citing too many orders.
I lost my patience and asked for a refund figuring that I was better off going back home or trying some other place.
The bugger agreed to refund the money but instead of reaching for the register, picked up the phone, called someone and started talking while I was standing there.
"You ordered twenty rotis, right?" Hindi reared its head once again. And the idiot gave it away that he had no clue what I had ordered.
I repeated my order, this time barely concealing my frustration.
With the correct information, he sauntered up to the line of take away bags and quietly fished out mine from among the earlier ones: my food had been sitting there all along for the past 45 minutes. The entire time that I was made to wait, this filthy animal posing as a manager was feeding me false information, buying time for no reason without even the foggiest clue that my food was already done.
I was now in a flying rage and started shouting at him at the very top of my voice about why clowns belong only in the circus and shouldn't be running restaurants. The portly bastard, showing not even the faintest trace of remorse, even started accusing me of not clarifying something or the other to him soon enough or clear enough. In Hindi.
Hearing the commotion, one of his waiters appeared and used a swear word. May be he saw this as his only chance for a long overdue pay hike or he had illusions of becoming his son-in-law. Whatever be the case, I was forced to respond in kind. A heated and colorful exchange of pleasantries in English, Hindi and Tamil, which made a late but forceful entry to give vent to my rage, provided live multi-lingual entertainment to the crowd of diners tucking into their dishes. At some point during the melee, the bugger even threatened to call the cops. To which I offered him my phone and urged him to dial them right away which, of course, promptly quietened him. No man in his mind would want to be declared an idiot by the police force.
I got a full refund, vowed never to step foot into Chaat Paradise, advised the waiting customers to find a better restaurant and returned home. They were, of course, absolutely thankful. Not for the advice but because their wait time just came down.
As I had mentioned, this wasn't the first time that that guy had tried to be a smart ass. On multiple occasions in the past, it was always something or the other. Lousy service, missed orders, dirty utensils and I had taken them all in my stride. But that Sunday, I just let go. It was as if the sluice gates were thrown open and all the pent up frustration came gushing out.
In the eyes of those that were there that night, I was some random idiot pissing off a restaurant manager. But to me it was a cathartic exercise. And although my wife disagrees, I walked out of that damned place a free man. A free hungry man.
Chaat Paradise is a restaurant in Mountain View along the famous El Camino Real. Tucked away in a corner of a mall, they are purveyors of North Indian food. I have in the past taken my business to them on many occasions. The prime motivation in choosing them over half a dozen other places right along El Camino Real is that we live a short distance from their establishment. Take away this advantage and there is no reason why I wouldn't go elsewhere as one can hardly tell them apart inasmuch as taste, quality and service are concerned.
Cut to this past Sunday and we were driving back home from somewhere and decided to pick up some food for dinner en route. Since we would have to pass Chaat Paradise on our way, we decided to go there. I placed my order with the manager at the cash register - some rotis and a couple of run-of-the-mill curries that wouldn't require fancy culinary maneuvers. The wait time, I was informed, was 15 minutes - par for a Sunday evening dinner time. I went back to my car and was passing the time trying to convince my kid that he could go back home to his toys very soon.
The food was not ready in 15 minutes. The manager rummaged through the few take away bags on the table behind the counter, checked with the kitchen and asked me to wait for ten more minutes. I go back a few years with this place and this was playing to the usual script. On time food was never their strong point. Back to the car and convincing an agitated kid expressing his burning desire to be set free from the car seat.
Fifteen minutes later, the food was still not ready. The manager checked the new take away bags, checked with the kitchen and came up to the register.
"Sir, there are many phone orders ahead of you. So it is going to take some more time." This in Hindi. I know just enough Hindi to know that this asshole had messed something up.
"But you knew this when you said 15 minutes right?" I was holding myself back. This wasn't the first time this has happened to me here and my patience was paper thin.
"I was only giving you an idea." This only confirmed that not only had he messed up but was trying to act smart. When I'm hungry and trying in vain to pacify my kid holed up in a parked car, someone trying to pontificate his sorry ass out of a fuck up of his own making in Hindi doesn't help the situation one bit.
Three options presented themselves:
1. Punch him in the face and storm out of the place. After dealing with the aftermath of course.
2. Demand a refund, go to another restaurant and spend more time than what would have taken to fix a homemade dinner.
3. Play along, wait for the food and go back home.
All things considered, option 3 seemed to be the prudent one to pursue and I came back to the car with the assurance that the kitchen had dropped everything else to prepare my order in five minutes.
Five minutes later, and by now I had spent close to 45 minutes just waiting for my damned order, the food is still missing. I'm trying to get the attention of the manager who is busy on the phone. He did a quick kitchen check and asked for more time citing too many orders.
I lost my patience and asked for a refund figuring that I was better off going back home or trying some other place.
The bugger agreed to refund the money but instead of reaching for the register, picked up the phone, called someone and started talking while I was standing there.
"You ordered twenty rotis, right?" Hindi reared its head once again. And the idiot gave it away that he had no clue what I had ordered.
I repeated my order, this time barely concealing my frustration.
With the correct information, he sauntered up to the line of take away bags and quietly fished out mine from among the earlier ones: my food had been sitting there all along for the past 45 minutes. The entire time that I was made to wait, this filthy animal posing as a manager was feeding me false information, buying time for no reason without even the foggiest clue that my food was already done.
I was now in a flying rage and started shouting at him at the very top of my voice about why clowns belong only in the circus and shouldn't be running restaurants. The portly bastard, showing not even the faintest trace of remorse, even started accusing me of not clarifying something or the other to him soon enough or clear enough. In Hindi.
Hearing the commotion, one of his waiters appeared and used a swear word. May be he saw this as his only chance for a long overdue pay hike or he had illusions of becoming his son-in-law. Whatever be the case, I was forced to respond in kind. A heated and colorful exchange of pleasantries in English, Hindi and Tamil, which made a late but forceful entry to give vent to my rage, provided live multi-lingual entertainment to the crowd of diners tucking into their dishes. At some point during the melee, the bugger even threatened to call the cops. To which I offered him my phone and urged him to dial them right away which, of course, promptly quietened him. No man in his mind would want to be declared an idiot by the police force.
I got a full refund, vowed never to step foot into Chaat Paradise, advised the waiting customers to find a better restaurant and returned home. They were, of course, absolutely thankful. Not for the advice but because their wait time just came down.
As I had mentioned, this wasn't the first time that that guy had tried to be a smart ass. On multiple occasions in the past, it was always something or the other. Lousy service, missed orders, dirty utensils and I had taken them all in my stride. But that Sunday, I just let go. It was as if the sluice gates were thrown open and all the pent up frustration came gushing out.
In the eyes of those that were there that night, I was some random idiot pissing off a restaurant manager. But to me it was a cathartic exercise. And although my wife disagrees, I walked out of that damned place a free man. A free hungry man.
