Hubs requested spaghetti for dinner on Sunday. With the warmer weather coming on, I wasn't in the mood to eat spaghetti...to be completely honest, I also didn't want to cook it. I've read many glowing tweets about an Italian restaurant in the metro area so I suggested we have dinner there and he was up for an adventure.
Disclaimer - The beautiful picture below looks exactly like the food my Italian Nana cooked for me and sadly, bares no resemblance to the dinner we were served.
|Fettuccine al Ragu by Ivan Vighetto, via Creative Commons|
We placed our orders; spaghetti for Hubs, me the sampler plate. Based on the Twitter reviews, I wanted to try it all! We started off with the cheesy bread with marinara dipping sauce and the kid by the window still hadn't eaten his pasta.
As we waited for our entrees, we made excuses for the lackluster cheesy bread and the kid still hadn't eaten his pasta. I noticed a half-dead plant, propped up in the other corner by the window, looking as if it were trying to escape. A crippled fig tree sagged in the center of the room, suffocating below an exposed, circular, industrial air vent. I assume the vent was responsible for the blanket of dust that the tree wore like a dirty, cotton candy sweater.
Our server refilled Hubs' glass twice, left mine on the table, both times. The kid by the window continued to concentrate on his phone as the bill came. He paid his tab, leaving the mound of pasta behind. I thought to myself, damn...if a college kid won't even eat this fettuccine alfredo, I wish I hadn't made it part of my sampler plate.
The rest of our meal was miserable. The pasta sauces, no better than the jarred stuff you buy at Walmart. The garlic toast that came with the meal almost broke my tooth. The pasta, not drained properly, created a bloody-looking pool on the bottom of my plate - I was done.
As we drove home, I ranted about what a lousy experience that was; I was passionately indignant. Hubs hadn't noticed many of the details that I angrily recalled. He wasn't bothered by the laminated drink menu sticking to our hands. He didn't care about the relentless dragging of the cook's filthy black tennis shoes as he served the table in front of us. He didn't even see the dirty, cotton candy tree sweater! We discussed our expectations and perceptions when we eat out...our differences so telling of us as a couple.
We contemplated the greasy spoon joints that we both love, despite their less than pristine accommodations. We decided that as long as the food's good, we can overlook things like sawdust on the floor or spotty service. The following exchange was my favorite part of our conversation.
Me: How can a place like that stay open for 25 years!? Why do so many people love that?!
Him: I don't know...it's mostly college kids I bet.
Me: Doesn't anyone else care about things like the sticky menus? I should be a restaurant critic.
Him: I wish they would've put meat in the marinara sauce, that chicken was...
Me: Am I just an overly critical bitch?!
Him: That could be true.
I whipped my head around to find him grinning, blushing a little bit. God love him, he tells me the truth and I can't argue with that. We laughed, chalked the meal up to experience and finished some Sunday errands. The night was saved when he found a copy of the movie "Highlander" for less than $5 - I've been looking for it for months.
We had a horrible dinner, Twitter lies! And it might be a while before we eat spaghetti again.
Rose Marie B, Customer Experience Consultant