When Dining Dilemmas Happen to Good People (Or: How to Keep Your Wits When Things Go Wrong)

Perhaps this is where I should have dined for solitude...
Credit: Danni Simmonds/MorgueFile

This past Wednesday I had lunch at Bertucci’s Italian Restaurant in Darien, CT.  However, this post isn’t so much about the food but rather about the set of circumstances surrounding my visit. It didn’t begin as a destination, per se, but rather it turned into a target of convenience purely because of its proximity to my maddening Maxxinista shopping spree at T.J.Maxx. While I won’t categorically knock the chain restaurant for its formulaic approach to food, it definitely isn’t one of the dining establishments on my go-to list of places to seek out when I really want a good meal.

Nevertheless, Bertucci’s is where I ended up as the minute hand slowly crept past twelve on the clock, heralding in the beginning of lunch hour. Normally I don’t eat lunch that early, but having skipped breakfast—something that I rarely do—my stomach was growling something fierce after a morning of marathon shopping.


I have a confession to make: I have a strong compulsion to read celebrity gossip magazines—supermarket tabloids such as Star Magazine, The National Enquirer, you name it—but I draw the line at Weekly World News. I do have scruples, ya know.

Armed with the latest copies of the Enquirer, Globe and the more reputable People Magazine, I sauntered into Bertucci’s with one thing on my mind: a leisurely, unhurried, quiet lunch. After requesting a window table with enough natural daylight to read by, I sat down, immediately ordered the Tuscan Chicken Wings and commenced to reading.

The dining room was like an abandoned ghost town. I half expected to see tumbleweed carried on a gust of wind to roll by the table. That was just the way I liked it. The fewer people there were to suck up the air I felt privy to breathe, the better.

Less than half-way through devouring the wings, one of the hostesses appeared in the room and began pushing together tables. She glanced nervously at me, and then averted her gaze as if the mere convergence of our eyes would cause her to spontaneously burst into flames. Then a second hostess appeared and she too began to rearrange tables.

Something was going on and I didn’t like the looks of it. It wasn’t until the first, er, long in the tooth woman clad in a pink polyester sweater, ill-fitting pale blue stretch pants, an outdated fanny pack strapped around her ample waist and ugly yet sensible shoes appeared that I realized what was happening. I was about to be overrun by the elderly set. This wasn’t your average contingent of slow moving old folks. These ladies were a rowdy bunch that had the nerve to warn me that they had a tendency to be a bit on the raucous side.

The hostess approached my table cautiously, making sure to keep a clear path of escape between her and the nearest exit, and cleared her throat.

Excuse me ma’am. We have a private party that will be taking place here.” She gulped loudly like she was trying to swallow a grapefruit whole. “There was a mix-up with the room, and I didn’t realize they would be in here when I seated you. Would you mind moving to another section?”

I stared blankly at her, looked down at my plate of half empty wings, and then glanced back up at her.

“We’ll be glad to buy you dessert…on the house.”

Was I irritated? Oh yeah, you betcha. But I felt like I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Reluctantly, I agreed to move and accepted the offer of a free dessert. I mumbled under my breath as the last of the fifteen loud old ladies was seated and made the walk of shame to my new table.

No sooner had I sat down and began to finish the last half of my wings when the waitress came grinning to the table carrying my entrée, Baked Tortellini & Chicken Gratinati. Little did she realize she was the walking manifestation of one of my major dining pet peeves: bringing the entrée to the table when the appetizer isn’t yet finished. I despise that with a major passion.

I glanced sideways at the waitress with as much sarcastic disdain as I could muster and said, “Really?” The implication was clear, but in case she missed it, I added the final touch. “I still have five wings to go.”

“But if I give this back to the kitchen,” she said, gesturing to the plate, “they’ll put it back in the oven and it’ll dry out.”

I ignored her and continued to eat my wings. She turned and walked away…with plate in hand. When I had whittled the wings down to two, she returned to the table with the plate and that irrepressible grin. I’m guessing she didn’t lace my food with arsenic since I’ve survived long enough to write this post, but beyond that there’s no telling what manner of abuse that pasta dish suffered at her hands. I was almost afraid to eat it. But I did. After all, I was hungry.

After the meal, there was no room for dessert, but I was determined to get that free dessert nonetheless. After all, I had it coming to me, damn it, and I was gonna get it. So I ordered the Chocolate Hazelnut Crostata to take home to my husband. That just goes to show you what a good wife I am.

As I paid my bill and was about to leave the restaurant, the waitress came to the table and made small talk. I’m not really sure why, but she did. So I small talked right back at her. And then it happened. I let it slip that I was a food writer. Her cocoa brown skin turned ashen. She stuttered momentarily, blinked like a cartoon character then simply walked away. After thirty seconds of whispering with the hostess, who turned out to be the assistant manager, the assistant manager rushed over to me, shoved a five dollar savings certificate into my hands without saying a word and then she too walked away. It was a strange Twilight Zone experience, one that left me standing next to my table looking around wondering who would approach me next. No one did, so I left.

As I walked out the door, I wondered what impact I had made on Bertucci’s. At the very core, when I thought about it honestly, they really did nothing wrong. It was my heightened sensibilities that were affected and that’s what left me feeling jaded and put off. Short of comping my entire meal, at least an effort was made to placate my bruised emotions, which basically amounted to my desire for a little private time. If I really wanted quiet and solitude, I guess I should have stayed home.

I’m glad I can view this in a lighthearted manner now. And I’m equally grateful that I didn’t allow too much pompousness to creep out and cause an unnecessary scene, making a small matter into a big one. And I say all of this to ultimately give a big thank you to Bertucci’s: for correcting a mistake with grace, for keeping their wits about them, and above all, for dessert!