EAT WHAT YOU GET

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So the other day, my family and I went for a nice, relaxing Saturday morning breakfast. Well, it was as relaxing as breakfast with two small children can be. It was more like 10-15 seconds of relaxation, followed by several minutes of "Do not put syrup on your brother!"

But syrup issues aside, the breakfast was quite enjoyable. I am of the school of thought that an occasional breakfast consisting of roughly 45 pounds of former barnyard residents is good for the soul. While there, I saw a co-worker and was quick to offer up my suggestions from the menu.

On Monday, I asked the co-worker how her no-doubt delicious breakfast was. She made a look that told me she thought I had some vested interest in her dining experience, and that I would take it personally if did not meet expectations. Granted, that is probably because I bounded into the room and bellowed, "Was that not the best breakfast ever!?!?!?"

"Uh..." she said, sheepishly. "Mine wasn't...really...that good..."

This hit me hard, because (a) I had recommended several items from the menu and (b) I had raved about the breakfast, which more than likely suggested I had the culinary palate of a dung beetle. That's not a stigma I do well with.

But then she said something very curious. "But I didn't complain!" she said. Ah, someone after my own heart. We are a dying breed, the ones who take whatever we are served and never complain, lest we be served something far worse.

I know a lot of people are quick to send food back to the kitchen. Food's too hot. Food's too cold. Food is covered in what looks like a thin layer of peat moss. But not me, nosiree. I could order a burger and you could serve me up a live cow and I would chow down.

I am not sure why I am hesitant to send bad food back. Perhaps it goes back to my days as a waiter. I worked at a buffet-style restaurant, and many people were quick to send back food, which I found quite humorous, since people were expecting the world's choicest cut of meat from a $5.99 buffet. Back in the kitchen, my fellow servers would make loud proclamations about what they could do with the food if they wanted to. Granted, no one ever did anything to anyone's food (that I saw), but it was a little unsettling to take that sneak peak into the dark crevices of the revenge section of some people's brains.

Side note: The restaurant I worked at used these little tabs that denoted how the food was cooked (rare, medium, burnt to a crisp, etc.). It was not exactly surgical care that went into placing the tabs, so you can imagine that it was not an uncommon occurrence for the wrong tab to be placed in the meat. When the customer would receive the order, they would notice the wrong tab was in place and send the food back. And what do you think happened? That's right -- the immense effort of changing out tabs went into effect, and the person got the exact same piece of food, but with a different little plastic tab jabbed into it. Simple little sheep.

Anywho, so my co-worker did what I would have done and dutifully ate the food she was brought. I know it's easy to criticize people like us for being push-overs. After all, you say, we are paying for a product, and we should not accept inferior products. We cannot allow the corporate machines to push us around, you say. Well, to you, I say, you are probably right. But I don't want someone clipping their nails into my returned soup.

Maybe one day I will receive a dish so vile, so nasty, so patently unacceptable, I will have no choice but to take a stand. And by take a stand, I mean after I finish the meal, I will not come back for weeks.