Wearing my cranky pants

Okay, so it isn’t all that rare that I wear the cranky pants, but it happened again last night.

When we go to a tournament in Santa Clara, we usually end up eating at Birks at least once.  It’s a really nice place, the food and service are first rate and it’s just 2 blocks from the Marriott.

But, like all restaurants, they have to make a profit and so they follow procedures that seem to work out best.  One of these, common to many, many restaurants, is to try to fill the worst tables in the house first, because if you can get some sucker to take the one by the kitchen or the one by the front door you don’t have to worry about it anymore.

So last night, we had a 5:15 reservation, courtesy of the idiotic new starting times that force adults to eat dinner in the middle of the afternoon.  We (me, Gail and fan-club president Barbara Hanson), arrive to find a virtually empty place, save for a couple of other bridge players hoping to choke down a meal way too early in the day.

So where do they try to seat us?

 

The worst table in the house. That's Gail in the back, where we insisted on sitting.

At the very first table, right at the top of the stairs.  Everybody coming by would be bumping into our chairs, checking out our dinners, making it an uncomfortable and unpleasant experience.

So I said no.  The hostess tried to claim it was the only table available, which is difficult in an empty store.  We found another table, of course, and said that we would sit there (where you see Gail above).

Dinner was fine.  I only eat a rib eye steak about once a year, but last night was the night because Birks does it so well.  I tried to show restraint on the the little hot torpedo rolls they bring, but it’s awfully hard not to overeat just on the bread.

Go to Birks during the regional, you’ll like it.  But don’t sit at the bad table by the door, they’re just doing business as usual.

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