I'M FROM SEATTLE...I SHOULD KNOW
Can you believe it? A new year, a new life, a new President? I'm beyond thrilled for the path we're about to embark on. I had tears and chills watching the inauguration yesterday. It makes me so happy and full of hope! Okay, that's all of that for now. Let me wish everyone a belated Happy New Year's! I hope it was a wonderful celebration for all. Me? I had a great night at a couple of people's homes, ending up at Snug and getting a bit too drunk. Apparently our roommate and I were making fun of a dance off (yes, a real impromptu dance off broke out) and doing all sorts of stupid crap like the Charleston, the Elaine, my imitation of New Kids on the Block, and so on. Still it was a great night, and it was wonderful to bring in the new year kissing my man. I love my new life in Charlotte and am so happy to be here with Pete.
Now my friends, it's story time.
TALES OF A FATHER
First let me preface this with a note about my dad. Most of you are aware we have not had the greatest relationship most of my life. However, it's become way better. I actually enjoy hanging out with him most of the time now. In saying all this, he's still my dad. Those of you who know him, know what I'm talking about. To sum it up this is a man who can often be extremely critical without realizing it; can't get rid of anything (though it's improving); takes years to finish projects; does not believe in food going bad therefore creating my personal fear of sell by and expiration dates; can often be a know-it-all; and has likely consumed his weight in food server/cook spit at restaurants. The last note leads me to Saturday night.
My dad was in High Point to visit along with his girlfriend, whom we all adore. Pete and I drove down Friday night to visit and stay with my sister and her family and visit. We stayed through Saturday evening and went out to dinner with the family. So everything is going fairly well, which is always a relief. Everyone gets their food and is having a great time until my dad sees my brother-in-law's salmon. Now, I had ordered the salmon too. It wasn't cooked all the way through, and while I would have preferred that it was, I am fine with it as I have adjusted due to my love of sushi and seared ahi. My brother-in-law was sitting next to my dad, which is why my dad noticed that Fletcher's salmon wasn't cooked all the way through. He doesn't even ask Fletch if he wants to send it back. Instead, he grabs some guy who isn't even our server and says, "Look at this (points to salmon). It's not cooked all the way through. It's rare in the middle. Salmon should always be cooked all the way through...I should know, I'm from Seattle."
Our jaws all drop. Did he really say that? Heidi and I immediately turn to each other, giving each other the look that says, 'Oh shit. He's doing it again." I then turn back to Pete and I meet his eyes. "Did you hear that? This is what I've told you about," I'm saying with my eyes. "I do. I get it," his eyes say back.
The guy asks if he would like the fish cooked more? My dad says yes...not Fletcher whose fish it was, but my dad. Fletcher's looking at him like he's a nut. Why, oh why could my father not let Fletcher deal with it himself? And since he didn't leave it up to Fletch, why could he not simply have said, "Excuse me, but could you please have the kitchen cook this more?" There is absolutely no need to tell someone how something should be cooked, and then state that you should know because you live somewhere that salmon exists. My god, it's the restaurant version of getting pulled over and shouting, "Do you KNOW who I am?"
Now you may not think this is a big deal, but with his past history it gets annoying and embarrassing. Growing up he was often rude to servers, and my favorite...order an item in its proper way with an accent and then butcher it. The man speaks German and if we were at a German restaurant, this is fine, but don't try to order Mexican food in Spanish or Italian food in Italian. I had forewarned Pete about this when we all went out to dinner here in Charlotte on Monday, and we were both grateful we were only going to The Cheesecake Factory, which would be safe in that respect. Seriously, it's really annoying. The best example was the night my parents met my ex-husband's parents.
We had just bought our house and were moving in the next day. We didn't think it would be cool to introduce them amongst moving boxes, so we planned to go out to dinner at Cucina! Cucina! It was September and still warm out, so we sat outside on their patio. We all place our drink orders, three of us ordering wine. So our server comes back and brings our drinks and sets wine down in front me, Jacob, and my dad instead of Jacob's dad. Remember that my father doesn't drink. Now to everyone else the easy (and nice) thing to do would simply be to pass the wine to Jacob's father. Did he? No. He instead throws his hands up in the air and exclaims, "WHOA! WHOA! Wait a minute, I did NOT order wine! This is clearly not mine!" My parents were still together back then and my mom and I say something about just passing it to Charles. So immediately after this moment, we place our order. When it comes to my dad's turn, he tries to order his entree in Italian and apparently totally butchers the pronunciation. The waiter, picking up on this and the cockiness that came with it, says, "You mean the _______?" and pronounces it correctly. My dad, not wanting to look in the wrong, says, "Scusi?" which is apparently "excuse me" in Italian. Yes, it was a cock fight of words. My mom and I wanted to crawl under the table. The rest of the group sat staring, embarrassed as well.
People still tell that story. It's definitely made its rounds when referring to how my father gets. Pete heard it for the first time on Monday as we awaited the arrival of my family to go out to dinner. And as he sat there looking stunned, he simply said, "Thank god no one I know works at The Cheesecake Factory." Everything turned out fine, he was super nice with what was quite possibly the best server we've ever had, and there was no near-spit experiences. But whether he is there or not, I will never send anything back to the kitchen thanks to him.
Now my friends, it's story time.
TALES OF A FATHER
First let me preface this with a note about my dad. Most of you are aware we have not had the greatest relationship most of my life. However, it's become way better. I actually enjoy hanging out with him most of the time now. In saying all this, he's still my dad. Those of you who know him, know what I'm talking about. To sum it up this is a man who can often be extremely critical without realizing it; can't get rid of anything (though it's improving); takes years to finish projects; does not believe in food going bad therefore creating my personal fear of sell by and expiration dates; can often be a know-it-all; and has likely consumed his weight in food server/cook spit at restaurants. The last note leads me to Saturday night.
My dad was in High Point to visit along with his girlfriend, whom we all adore. Pete and I drove down Friday night to visit and stay with my sister and her family and visit. We stayed through Saturday evening and went out to dinner with the family. So everything is going fairly well, which is always a relief. Everyone gets their food and is having a great time until my dad sees my brother-in-law's salmon. Now, I had ordered the salmon too. It wasn't cooked all the way through, and while I would have preferred that it was, I am fine with it as I have adjusted due to my love of sushi and seared ahi. My brother-in-law was sitting next to my dad, which is why my dad noticed that Fletcher's salmon wasn't cooked all the way through. He doesn't even ask Fletch if he wants to send it back. Instead, he grabs some guy who isn't even our server and says, "Look at this (points to salmon). It's not cooked all the way through. It's rare in the middle. Salmon should always be cooked all the way through...I should know, I'm from Seattle."
Our jaws all drop. Did he really say that? Heidi and I immediately turn to each other, giving each other the look that says, 'Oh shit. He's doing it again." I then turn back to Pete and I meet his eyes. "Did you hear that? This is what I've told you about," I'm saying with my eyes. "I do. I get it," his eyes say back.
The guy asks if he would like the fish cooked more? My dad says yes...not Fletcher whose fish it was, but my dad. Fletcher's looking at him like he's a nut. Why, oh why could my father not let Fletcher deal with it himself? And since he didn't leave it up to Fletch, why could he not simply have said, "Excuse me, but could you please have the kitchen cook this more?" There is absolutely no need to tell someone how something should be cooked, and then state that you should know because you live somewhere that salmon exists. My god, it's the restaurant version of getting pulled over and shouting, "Do you KNOW who I am?"
Now you may not think this is a big deal, but with his past history it gets annoying and embarrassing. Growing up he was often rude to servers, and my favorite...order an item in its proper way with an accent and then butcher it. The man speaks German and if we were at a German restaurant, this is fine, but don't try to order Mexican food in Spanish or Italian food in Italian. I had forewarned Pete about this when we all went out to dinner here in Charlotte on Monday, and we were both grateful we were only going to The Cheesecake Factory, which would be safe in that respect. Seriously, it's really annoying. The best example was the night my parents met my ex-husband's parents.
We had just bought our house and were moving in the next day. We didn't think it would be cool to introduce them amongst moving boxes, so we planned to go out to dinner at Cucina! Cucina! It was September and still warm out, so we sat outside on their patio. We all place our drink orders, three of us ordering wine. So our server comes back and brings our drinks and sets wine down in front me, Jacob, and my dad instead of Jacob's dad. Remember that my father doesn't drink. Now to everyone else the easy (and nice) thing to do would simply be to pass the wine to Jacob's father. Did he? No. He instead throws his hands up in the air and exclaims, "WHOA! WHOA! Wait a minute, I did NOT order wine! This is clearly not mine!" My parents were still together back then and my mom and I say something about just passing it to Charles. So immediately after this moment, we place our order. When it comes to my dad's turn, he tries to order his entree in Italian and apparently totally butchers the pronunciation. The waiter, picking up on this and the cockiness that came with it, says, "You mean the _______?" and pronounces it correctly. My dad, not wanting to look in the wrong, says, "Scusi?" which is apparently "excuse me" in Italian. Yes, it was a cock fight of words. My mom and I wanted to crawl under the table. The rest of the group sat staring, embarrassed as well.
People still tell that story. It's definitely made its rounds when referring to how my father gets. Pete heard it for the first time on Monday as we awaited the arrival of my family to go out to dinner. And as he sat there looking stunned, he simply said, "Thank god no one I know works at The Cheesecake Factory." Everything turned out fine, he was super nice with what was quite possibly the best server we've ever had, and there was no near-spit experiences. But whether he is there or not, I will never send anything back to the kitchen thanks to him.
