Shannanigans
We ate at Bennigan's Irish Pub last night, and I must admit: Not a fan of the Bennigan's.
First of all, when a patron asks a waitress how a particular appetizer is, such as southwest eggrolls, why would the waitress stand there looking stupid and say, "Um, like, I couldn't tell you. I've never had them before. I have no idea."
????????
LIE to me! Tell me that they are the best damn southwest eggrolls you've ever had!
Jesus Christ.
Second of all, what kind of Irish pub offers a fish and chips entree, but mysteriously runs out of vinegar? RUNS OUT OF VINEGAR!? In an entire restaurant, how can there not be any vinegar to be found?
After my much anticipated basket of fish and chips arrives, I am asked if I need anything else.
"I would love some vinegar, that would be great," I say.
Our waitress returns five minutes later empty-handed.
"We're, like, out of vinegar," she says.
????????
"Really? You're out of vinegar?"
"Yeah."
"Completely out of vinegar. None to be had in this entire restaurant."
"Yeah."
I sit in silence looking at her, waiting for her to suggest a solution to this problem. She stands in silence looking bored.
So the waitress finally suggests balsamic vinegarette or ranch salad dressings for my fried fish.
?????????
Blasphemy. There is a very specific way to eat fish and chips, and it doesn't involve ranch or balsamic vinegarette salad dressing. You eat fish and chips with malt vinegar. That's like the law of the land.
Would a waitress trained in the know of steak eatery suggest to a patron that they try some ketchup on their fillet mignon? I think not.
I guess she never got the memo that vinegar is to fish and chips like ketchup is to french fries, or mustard is to hot dog, or spam is to fried rice (for those of you who don't know- oh yes. Spam makes fried rice out of this world. Haters.)
I am convinced that there was indeed vinegar back there somewhere but she was too lazy to go and find it. Because she was too busy going outside to talk to a friend who was smoking, or having a conversation with another waitress farting around in the back, or whatever else she had on her not-doing-shit-even-though-she-had-only-one-table agenda for the evening.
Refilling our drinks apparently wasn't on the agenda. It's always nice to have to walk your empty cup up to the bar for a refill, and passing by the window, you see your waitress outside chatting with a friend.
Taylor gets his Monte Cristo, and much to his dismay, it is more like a massive fried catastrophe with a hint of what used to be a ham sandwich in it somewhere.
The sandwich BURPED grease at him- seriously. It was a little grease hiccup, spewing a trickle of hazardous waste down the side, like a fat kid looking guilty with frosting slipping off of his chin after eating an entire cake to himself.
Taylor ate two or three bites and couldn't handle it. I swear he started to sweat grease. So he put it in a to-go box, wrote "GROSS" on it and left it sitting on the table with the generous tip we left the waitresses for her 5-Star services.
