Jimmy had to go out of town on Thursday night, so Kate, Ashley and I had a girls' night out. We wanted to try the new restaurant located in the old Marie Callender's building called Oventi.
The food was decent. The service was excellent. The prices were high.
I think I would've liked it better if our bill didn't come out to $75...
When I compare it to my favorite local restaurants, the price and quality do not compare.
Onto the exciting part of the night:
My favorite thing in the world is rib eye. My very favorite. If I was on death row- that would be the star player in my last meal. Grilled rib eye, artichokes, corn on the cob and grilled veggies. Maybe some kind of potato, but I don't know how the starch would go with lethal injection. (is that not funny to joke about?)
Anyway.... when our group walked into the restaurant armed with the menu left on the doorstep of my in-laws (they are really, really desperate right now), I KNEW there was rib eye on the menu. Because we knew that this would be the restaurant of choice since Monday, I had been contemplating getting the steak since then. The problem with that is- only ONE restaurant in my history of rib eye hunting has met my expectations. I kind of feel bad for all the other eateries that bit the dust. Because if you can't sell me your rib eye- I ain't coming back.
I keep going on and on about this when really I want to get to the actual part that should be a little entertaining... because it is so embarrassing for me (funny for you).
When the waiter seated us, I had already been nearly hyperventilating about the rib eye in the car and Ashley was a little fed up. She suggest I just ask about it. So, when the server returned to the table, I nearly attacked him with a battery of questions. The poor waiter was stunned silent for a second then assured me it was good. That small moment of his lack in confidence made me blurt out something incredibly stupid, "I'm a chef! I'm really picky!" Now, the face of this poor boy turned sheet white and he clipped a response, "I'll go get the chef" Then the waiter spun as quickly as his scrawny body could manage back to the kitchen. ARGH! Noooo! What is wrong with me?!?!?! I do not want to talk to the chef! When you are labeled as a 'difficult' table, there are one of two outcomes- the staff becomes ultra sensitive, to the point of it being extremely uncomfortable or they spit in your food, to the point of being extremely disgusting. So rather than be labeled the 'difficult' table, I just kind of smiled sheepishly at the chef when he visited our table and asked how thick the steak was. He answered quickly and inquired how I wanted it cooked. I looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights and replied, "I'm not even sure I'm getting the rib eye...." When his face fell, "everything on the menu looks soooo good" I gushed.
Now rather than the overly accommodating staff or compromised food, I became the blubbering idiot. "Oh, this is ah-mazing" I would periodically say to Ashley (really loudly) so the passing bus boy might pass it on to the chef. Apparently, that didn't work because halfway through the meal, the manager stopped by our table. It was another dance of me being overly nice and idiot-like. The comments I made were gushing out of my mouth like a flash flood. I needed to get out of there before the sum of the waiter's tip in my head got any larger. After a so-so meal, we left a 30% tip on the table. If the waiter had refilled my water one more time, he would've pulled in at least 50%. With my voice reaching it's all time high, just STILL trying to not be a 'diffifult' table we headed out to the car. When inside, I looked over at Ashley and said (in an entirely normal, not cheesy or butt-kissing tone), "That place was okay."
Now, this is my question- do you think 30% buys me my dignity?