In junior hockey they call it the 24 hour rule. Allow 24 hours to cool down before reporting an incident. It allows one to put the situation into perspective.
I don’t believe in the 24 hour rule.
I just walked back to the hotel after a visit to Carlos and Pepe’s in Fort Lauderdale. I had heard about the place. I asked a local Latin dude what he thought of the place and he said it was pretty good.
Maybe that only applies to local Latinos.
Before you go off thinking I’m one of those guys, listen to my tale.
I sat down at the bar and waited 3 or 4 minutes before the bartender acknowledged me. Once she did visit, she was clearly pissed off at something else. I asked for a Dos Equis and she asked if I wanted light or dark. I said dark and then asked if the light was just light in color or was a light beer. I didn’t know. She looked even more pissed off and walked away.
2 guys came in and sat down the bar from me. They spoke Spanish between themselves and she approached them with a big smile and began flirting with them. She took their drink orders. I had now been at the bar for about 10 minutes and still didn’t have a pint in front of me.
Her assistant brought the pair some taco chips and salsa and then went to get some for me. A few moments later, Miss Happy Pants got around to bringing my pint. After the guys who came in after me got theirs.
She took their food order before she took mine. Again, she flirted with them and begrudgingly took my order.
When she finally came to take my order, I asked what she would recommend and I got the standard “everything is good”. I asked if the tacos I wanted were hot or would I need hot sauce. She did not respond.
Bitch.
To my right at the bar were a pair of the Real Housewives of Fort Lauderdale who were having a grand old chat about the married dudes the one was banging. They decided to call the one guy “The Juicer” to tell him apart from all of the others. Humor aside, these two nasty TV whore wannabes add another level to the story. One of them spoke Spanish. The bartender treated them like her long lost sisters. When they ordered the mud pie dessert, she joked with them about it being that time of the month.
Is Mud Pie a traditional Mexican dish or just a prerequisite for Floridian menstruation?
My dinner arrived with the promised 2 soft tortillas, one stuffed with chunks of chicken and the other with steak. In both cases, the meat was cooked perfectly. They were accompanied with little paper cups containing pico, guac and cheese. A second plate held an American sized serving refried beans coated in melted cheddar and a mound of rice. I had to ask for a couple of extra torts to deal with the excess.
While the meat was well cooked, the full combo was as bland as the local Taco Bell. I asked the assistant dude for some hot sauce. He presented me with yet another little paper cup full of green chili sauce. While the sauce was obviously freshly made, it had absolutely no flavor, just a searing heat which is sure to light me on fire tomorrow morning.
Having worked in the industry many moons ago, I have yet to walk out of a restaurant without paying or leaving a tip. Tonight I was tempted to do both. The mediocre food would have been semi acceptable if there was a glimmer of friendliness in the service. Instead, there was half assed food along with bitchy service.
Like a good Canadian, I paid my bill and I tipped the witch exactly 10 percent. On the way out, I asked the hostess to tell the manager that the bartender is a bitch.
Had she offered a smile and a bit of courtesy, she would probably earned 20-25%. Her loss, and the bosses of course!
Editor’s note: I almost forgot to mention the bathrooms. I have seen cleaner lavatory facilities in rural filling stations. You know what they say: Judge a restaurant by the condition of its bathrooms. I shudder to think what the kitchens look like!
