My mother had invited my daughter and I to a Tuesday night showing of Miss Saigon at the Aronoff Theater in downtown Cincinnati. I said yes, of course, because the invitation entailed a free meal as well as the opportunity to spend some free time with my daughter. Not that my Mom isn’t a draw, it’s just that I hadn’t seen my youngest in a couple weeks and was looking forward to catching up.
The evening started off innocuously enough, with the three of us meeting at my mom’s place, a mere block from my own, then walking downtown to eat at the Rock Bottom Brewery before the show started. Mom had bought a package deal for the musical that included a twenty percent discount at the Rock Bottom, which is why it was chosen. We arrived about an hour and ten minutes before the show was to begin, which translated into an hour’s worth of dining time before we would need to leave for the theater. The friendly hostess sat us at a table almost immediately, and we dutifully informed her of our time restriction concerning the start time of the musical right before she walked away.
Then…nothing.
Nothing happened, at least not when it came to actually getting served.
Certainly, there were servers fluttering all about, but none who deigned to take the time to stop and ask three people sitting quietly with closed menus if we needed anything, like food or drink. So, after waiting at least ten minutes, and with my mother’s head about to explode from frustration, I made the trek back to the hostess stand to query as to whether our table had a server assigned, or if it was possible that our table existed in an alternate dimension, one which left us invisible to the restaurant’s employees. Smiling pleasantly, the hostess informed me that, 1) Though she was no physicist, she was sure the table existed in the same dimensional plane as she and I and, 2) That she would track down a server. I left the hostess station a tad skeptical about the alternate dimension thingy, as we seemed invisible not only to the wait staff but to the other patrons as well. Regardless I took the news back to the table.
Another five minutes passed.
And another five minutes passed.
(Bear in mind that I’m talking about the true passage of time, not the perceived passage of time experienced by all who have been in the position we currently found ourselves. If I say five minutes I mean it. I timed it. Really.)
Finally, now with just forty minutes to go until our hard exit time, a young, distressed lady bustled her way to the table. She was apologetic and, given her style of dress, looked managerial, though she never claimed to be a manager or even give us her name, most likely because she did not want to be named in the lawsuit that would most assuredly result from my mother’s head exploding. The maybe-manager took our drink order and then attempted a speedy exit, an action I was prepared to prevent with a quick grab at her collar. However, as an alternative to physical assault, I opted for a far less aggressive gambit. I would bring to bear all the propaganda I read as a teen about mind-control, about hypnotizing women into doing my bidding, using only the power of my voice.
“Excuse me, miss. We’re ready to order dinner. We’ve had plenty of time to decide what we want.” I laid it on with eye contact and steady phrasing. Luckily for everyone involved, my vocally-enhanced plea was enough to get her to turn around and take our food order, though admittedly she seemed more frustrated than hypnotized.
To the joy of my mother and me, and to a lesser extent my daughter, who is too laid back to care if we made it to the show on time, the drinks arrived five minutes later. With the clock ticking there was still a palpable amount of stress flowing around our table, but at least we had alcohol. I don’t remember what Mother ordered, but I do remember it didn’t last long. My Black Russian didn’t last much longer as it is not only my favorite drink but also that of my eighteen-year-old daughter, whose proximity to me at the table put her left hand in direct contact with the Black Russian.
The waiting game continued, however, and by now we were pushing the fifteen-minute mark on the required departure time.
“I don’t think it’ll get here in time,” my daughter offered gravely, my Black Russian suddenly poised just beneath her lips. She had stopped mid-drink to make her pronouncement.
“It had better get here quickly, or there will be hell to pay.” Mom was already half-way through her drink, but it seemed the expected beneficial effect of the alcohol had yet to kick in. I watched her face as a large vein in her forehead pulsed prominently over her right eye, just above the frame of her glasses, wondering how much more her seventy-nine-year-old vascular system could take. It wouldn’t be much longer until her hand went up, as if she were waiting to ask a question from some unseen professor, or until she started using the same hand to grab random, unsuspecting employees who were unfortunate enough to stray within arm’s reach of the table. Luckily the food appeared just as things were ready to hit the breaking point.
Now, I will demure from using the adverb “ravenously” to describe the style with which we ate our now fifty-minute-old food, but it wouldn’t be unfair to do so. In the attempt to finish our meals and pay the bill before time expired we were forced to, more or less, shovel the food into our mouths, pausing only to take in enough water to act as throat-lubrication. The check came, along with the would-be manager, just as we were finishing.
“Hey guys, we’re sorry about all the problems tonight. We’re going to take forty percent off your bill because of the trouble.”
Now, kindly gesture notwithstanding, in my mind I was questioning the forty percent discount before she even dropped the check on the table. Did she mean a forty percent discount off one hundred percent of the original check amount? Or a forty percent discount of eighty percent of the one hundred percent, which would, ipso facto, put the bill total at forty percent of the original one hundred percent, as we were already supposed to have twenty percent off in the first place. I did not have a calculator handy and in the end I decided not to waste the time deciphering her math, handing her my credit card before she was able to walk away again.
When it was our turn to walk away we did so with confidence, knowing we would get to the show on time, but also that we would never go to the Rock Bottom again, at least not if we were hungry or had to be anywhere. And if I was on Yelp I would say the same.
