Warning: Vent ahead.
I like to go out to eat on the boys’ birthday. The way I see it, I shouldn’t have to cook on the anniversary of the day I gave birth to three babies. While the boys don’t love going to restaurants (what is wrong with them?!?) at least I can count on them eating something nice and fattening.
I was having a hard time deciding where to go, since they’re so picky. I finally settled on a famous chain restaurant that I knew had good chicken fingers on the menu. I’d be able to get a salad or something that pretends to be healthy, and the boys could get a fun dessert for their birthday. Plus, George had gotten a gift card to this restaurant that named itself after a spicy vegetable, so it seemed like an easy decision.
We get to the restaurant, and are seated after a short wait. So far, fine. The waitress comes and takes our orders. Hooray! I order a Tex-Mex inspired bowl of some sort, George gets a burger, and the boys get the chicken and fries.
And we wait. And wait and wait and wait and wait. Our waitress assures us our food is coming. Eventually, it does. She warns us of hot plates, and I know these chicken fingers usually are volcanically hot when they get to the table, so I warn the boys not to touch them. I needn’t have worried, they were warm, but certainly not too hot to eat.
My food is set in front of me, and it looks nothing like the menu photo. The plate is covered in black beans and there’s a grilled chicken breast on top. (Also, not hot, but warm. How long was it sitting in the back, I wonder?) Most of the ingredients listed seem to be there, so I figure it’s just one of those things where it looks different in real life. But where’s the sliced avocado and the fresh greens? I start to eat, because we’ve already waited so long, but I flag the waitress down when she deigns to stop by our table.
“There’s no avocado on this,” I say.
“There’s not supposed to be,” she counters.
“Please bring me a menu.”
“Of course!” she replies, brightly. A few moments later, she comes back with a menu. Right there in black and white (actually color) is a photo of my dish with avocado on top. And the description clearly mentions “sliced avocado” and “field greens.” With a confused look, she goes back to the kitchen.
She comes back an eternity later (my chicken breast is almost gone at this point, but it’s the principle) and says, “the kitchen doesn’t give out avocado slices. They say no one likes them so they don’t offer them.”
My head explodes and she scurries off to get the manager.
The manager goes to the table, and she is very apologetic. She also informs me that my dish should not have avocado on it. I love being called a liar, so I point out the photo and description on the menu. She says, “that’s not what you ordered.”
Uh, okay. Yes it is.
“No, you ordered the Margarita Chicken. That’s the Margarita Chicken Bowl.”
My head re-explodes.
So there are two dishes on the menu with nearly the same name. When I ordered, I pointed to the item on the menu that I wanted (THE BOWL), and said the name (BOWL BOWL BOWL). Why would a restaurant put two items with nearly the same name on the menu, and then hire servers who are too dumb to know the difference? I’m pretty sure if I worked at this restaurant, and someone ordered one of these items, I’d make damn sure I was clear on what the customer wanted (THE BOWL). But what do I know?
The manager, who was very nice, offered to bring the boys some desserts for free, but we said no, we just wanted to get out. They comped me and George’s entrees, and gave us a bunch of vouchers to use for next time. Next time, ha!
On the bright side, I only had a grilled chicken breast for dinner, so at least I had a relatively healthy meal.