#worstservice

Waffle Haus: Die Scheiße Weiter

      I recently went to Waffle House with a friend. It was 3 AM, obviously we didn't think clearly about our decision. Upon walking in, we were greeted by the high school drama kid rejects, all doomed to work in the confines of a school bus yellow building for the rest of their foreseeable futures. We took a seat at one of the many open tables, thus bringing the customer level to 5. Our lovely waitress came over to us, only to begin bitching about working a 12 hour shift. Just what I want, to hear about a complete stranger's problems in the wee hours of the morning. We politely nod our heads, hoping to god she'll catch the hint, Eventually, she takes our drink order. I order coffee and my friend orders juice.

"Just to let you know, there's no refills on the juice."

"...I figured. It's juice."

"OK, well I just wanted to make sure you know."

"...Guess I'll just have to be a slow sipper."

      The drinks come out, and after another long awkward conversation with our waitress, we finally get to place our food orders. In case you haven't ever been to Waffle House, the only thing on the menu you should never get is the waffles. I know, I know. How does that make sense? One of the great ironies in life, isn't it. But then, they don't call it the Awful Waffle for nothing. I mean, you'd probably get a better flavor profile from a cardboard box. No, you should never get a waffle here. Instead, always opt for the hash browns. It's not that they're good, it's just the one thing they somehow manage to not fuck up.

The Awful Waffle Makes Awful Waffles, or How To Clog Your Heart In One Sitting

      Just in case you don't have your pocket sized menu on ya, above you can see any combination of hash browns and greasy shit you could imagine. My friend ordered her's Smothered, and Peppered. And then had to reiterate to our waitress twice:

"OK, so that's smothered, covered, and peppered?"

"No, just smothered and peppered, not covered. Just smothered and peppered."

Special girl, our waitress. I ordered Smothered, Covered, Peppered, and Topped, cuz what the hell ya only live once. I also ordered some eggs.

"Scrambled, with cheese. Cheddar."

"We only have one kinda cheese."

"OK, that's fine. I'll take that."

"Just one kind. Cheap, processed cheese. Just cheap, processed cheese."

"Wow, you're really doing a good job of selling it. I don't care what it is, that'll work fine."

"Yeah I don't know what it is, I just know it melts real good."

     Ok, folks, ignoring the obvious lapses in good customer service that are painfully obvious, what else is wrong with this picture?! Did you really just say you only have one type of cheese? Where the fuck am I, some third world country!? This is America! Every diner in America has an entire pasture's worth of cheese just taking up space, just crying out to be consumed. Is there a secret upcharge I need to pay? Believe me, I will gladly pay for anything that can be described more elegantly than "cheap, processed cheese." Call it "that Mexican tasting cheese," call it "like, pizza cheese." I don't give a shit, just don't tell me that I am at a diner chain based in the South with ONLY ONE KIND OF CHEESE.     

      While I'm placing my order, my friend and I both know notice the baby roach crawling over the table. We also both realize if we bring it to our waitress's attention, we'll be subjected to another half hour of talking to this girl, so we keep quiet. Order complete, our waitress hands it over to the poor sucker behind the grill. After a couple shouts over to us to confirm that she took the order right, our food comes out. If nothing else, at least the slop came out fast. The better to leave this hell hole and make it back home before my bowels turn on me.

Southern Culture In The Skid Marks

      Before me, I stare at an abomination of all things delicious. The only thing missing is the Jello Keylime Pie. Well, that and the fucking cheese I ordered. In case you were too lazy to read folks, Smothered, Covered, Peppered, and Topped really translates to onions, melted cheese, jalapeños, and chili. All tossed in with something I am to believe at one point was potato based. In place of the cheese I ordered was diced up pieces of ham. Not delicious Sunday morning country ham. No, this was more akin to Carl Budding ham. And if that's too low class for even you, think Oscar Mayer Bologna but worse. Really, think any sad, wilted salad buffet in America and you can picture the ham, sitting right next to the three day old hard boiled eggs and the too-bright-to-really-be-bacon bacon bits. That is NOT what I ordered. I have no desire to slurp up a bunch of pig lips and chicken assholes with my hash mess. But, then again, telling the waitress would just result in talking to her more. I see what you did here, Waffle House. You tricked me! You tricked me into just settling for this shit, because to get down the yellow brick road to what I really ordered requires going through the flying monkeys you employ. Sneaky bastards!

      I make it through the hash browns, then turn my attention to the soggy mass that is my eggs and cheese. I can't be quite certain, but I think the eggs may have winked at me. I mean, if science teachers ever want to give their kids an up close and personal look at an amoeba, just bring 'em on down to Waffle House and order the eggs. Knowing that I couldn't get through this artery clogging mass without copious amounts of ketchup and hot sauce to the point where I couldn't even remember what the original flavor was supposed to be, I was finally forced to flag down the waitress again, flying monkeys be damned (even I have my limits).

"Do you guys have any Texas Pete?"

"Nope, whatcha see is what ya got."

"You really don't have anything besides Tabasco?"

"Nuh uh, but I heard if ya mix the two it kinda tastes like it. Ya want me to get ya a little bowl?"

"Nope. Guess I'll just deal with this."

      Side note: I detest Tabasco. I think it is completely devoid of all flavor and merely serves as a means to burn your tongue. I mean Sriracha has more flavor, and that shit's basically chili paste.

      I also find it mind boggling that, in the South, I can yet again find the ONE DINER that doesn't carry something. I mean hot sauce is a staple of Southern breakfast. It didn't even need to be Texas Pete. Frank's, Crystal, any of that shit would work. Not even a fucking drop! I contemplated walking across the street to the 7-11 to buy a bottle, I really did. But then I reminded myself that I was getting far to invested in a meal that would hardly be digested by the time the shits would set in. I settled with drowning my eggs in ketchup. I mean it looked like a goddamn murder scene. With that finished, all that was left was the toast.

      Now, I don't know about you, but every diner I've ever been to has jelly on the table. Not at Waffle House! In an effort to save costs, they force you to go through the flying monkeys to get some goddamn fruit flavored gelatin.

"Hey, could I get some jelly?"

"Yeah, what kind did you want?"

"Um, what do you have?"

"We have grape, and strawberry, and-"

"Yeah, I'll just take the strawberry."

"OK. We also have mint, and mixed berry, and orange."

"Yeah, no I just want the strawberry. Thanks."

      Really, Waffle House?! You don't have hot sauce, but you have mint jelly? Where the hell do you think you are?! East London?! The waitress brings out two measly packets of jelly for my now rock hard toast. As I'm opening the packet, that little corner with the tab rips off, cutting me off from all hope of using that one. Thank god I have two! I make it through my first slice of bread, and have to use the entire packet of jelly just to reconstitute the bread to something resembling edible. And then I remembered I only had the one packet to work with. I mean, sure I could probably flag down the waitress and get another packet, so I did what any logical person would do in my situation. I used a butter knife to stab open the packet, managing to only send half the jelly airborne.

      We finished eating, and flagged down our waitress to get our check. About this time, another table (making that two of us at this point) came and sat down. Like a small child with a new toy, our waitress forgot about us. HOW, in a restaurant the size of a small garage and with only two tables, she managed to pull that off, I'm still not sure. So we waited. And waited. And waited. Until finally, I just walked up to the other girl at the counter, a whopping six feet from our waitress to ask for the bill.

"OK, just a moment."

      Then she literally walked over to our waitress to get the bill. Except our waitress didn't have it on her so she had to walk over to her pile of shit, which for some reason was allowed to be all over a table, to find our check. When that failed, we were on the honor policy and had to recite back our order. Without fail, the waitress asked

I made the awful decision to dine at this fine establishment the other day with some family members. We sat down, and I immediately scanned the too-short beer list. Nothing from Virginia. Quite literally nothing local. Not even a beer from some of the northern Virginia breweries. I asked a manager about this later, and here's how our conversation went:

"I noticed you guys don't have any local craft beer..."

"Mhm."

"Well...do you guys plan on getting any?"

"Nope."

"Well, that's a shame..." (slightly confused at the curt responses for pretty innocent questions)

"Yeah, well we're corporate so we do what they tell us."

Really, Cheesecake Factory? REALLY!?!? Are you living under a rock somewhere, and haven't heard about this newfangled thing called craft beer? Has no one told you about the fact that while overall beer sales are down 1.9%, craft beer sales are up a whopping 17.2%?! Or the fact that craft beer sales account for $14.3 billion in revenue?!* I scoff at you. Oh, and I hope you fire your fucking marketing department!

Beer To Disappoint

So, I settled with a Stone IPA. The girl then asks me if I'd like a chilled glass. OH YES, PLEASE GIVE ME A GLASS THAT WILL DRASTICALLY RUIN THE FLAVOR AS WELL AS KILL OFF SOME OF THE ALCOHOL THAT I'LL NEED TO GET THROUGH THIS WRETCHED MEAL!! No thanks, I'd prefer a room temperature glass if that's not too challenging for someone who clearly didn't make the Hooter's cut because her parents wouldn't buy her Proactiv at a young age.

The girl comes back with the non alcoholic beverages, and tells the TWO of us that are waiting on BEERS that the bartender is still getting our drinks ready. What, is she brewing the beer herself? God, I hope not, considering the quality of staff here! And what else could she possibly have going on that it takes fifteen minutes to get a beer? IT'S 4:30 ON A FUCKING TUESDAY, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!!! An eternity later, our beers arrive. My father, who hasn't had a sip of booze in 20 years, immediately reels back from the smell that I can only describe as a skunk taking a shit on the table. I pour it and say, "Now, let me just taste it to be sure..." BIG MISTAKE. I have never tasted a beer so fouled and past it's prime, let alone one I was charged $6 for. I really didn't need that sip, as even the head on the beer looked diseased and cancerous.

I flag down the first waitress wandering by, as ours is nowhere to be found, and tell her my beer is skunked.

"Your beer is what, hon?"

"Skunked! It's skunked. You left it in the light, or it's gone bad."

"Well, I'll go talk to the bartender"

"Just tell her to grab me a fresh one. I don't even care if it's chilled at this point."

Disappointment: It's What's For Dinner

While the Great Beer Debacle was going on, we all ordered our food. I settled with The Incredible Grilled Eggplant Sandwich. I was sure it would be oh so "incredible." I ordered a salad with mine, as did my grandfather. And then we waited. And waited. And waited. And eventually his salad came out. Just his salad. So we waited, and waited and waited some more.

And then, as if by miracle, four different servers (none of whom was our original waitress) came out with the rest of our food. It looked like we weren't going to starve after all.

Now, I'm a HUGE fan of eggplant. Call it aubergine, call it guinea squash, hell call it brinjal for all I care. Just cook it right. Well, at The Cheesecake Factory, it wouldn't be another quality meal if they didn't completely botch the preparation.

If I'd wanted to taste slugs in my mouth, I would have just brought a can of Cento Marinated Mushrooms. I mean really, how much oil did you cook the eggplant in?! Hey Chef, you know that shit works like a sponge, right?! And why not pair limp dick eggplant with limp dick red peppers that still tasted of the aluminum from the can they were in 20 minutes prior. And don't even get me started on the grilled onions! First off, who pairs a strong ass red onion with the delicate flavor of eggplant? And for god's sake, when you cut up an onion remove the fucking skin!!! I mean, I figured even small children knew that one! Oh and lest I forget the bun, I think a soggy tissue would have held up better to the moisture in that sandwich. Probably would have tasted better, too. What, do you guys source your buns from the discount bread shop or something?! I mean, Mary Jane White Bread has a better taste than that turd you call a bun. The only thing incredible about that sandwich was the price tag.

Well, Now That You've All Been Thoroughly Disappointed With Our Cooking How About Some Dessert To Wash Down That Disgust?

Ah, yes. The dessert. Wouldn't quite be a visit to the ol' Cheesecake Factory without a taste of their signature treats. I ordered the Wild Blueberry White Chocolate Cheesecake, as it was highly recommended by our server. I guess that was my first mistake. Out it came all bedecked in whipped cream. Upon closer examining, I realized that said whipped cream was some canned Reddi Whip type crap. Is it so goddamn hard to make in-house whipped cream anymore?! Or is it just that the high school dishwasher can't be trusted around the Whip Its canister? I took my first bite of this "delicious and popular" cheesecake, and I swear I felt my tongue commit suicide. I'm pretty sure there's more real blueberry flavor in a packet of Kool Aid, and the cream cheese tasted like chalk and mortar mixed into a lovely slurry and then pressed into a brick with "blueberries" embedded. I took my second bite, and ya know what? I learned something new. I learned that you CAN in fact make a cheesecake crust with sandpaper. Really incredible. I mean the culinary genius behind that one. I can see the conversation now:

"Guys, we gotta find a way to spice up our cheesecake! I mean anyone can do cheesecake, what makes ours so special? Ideas, anyone?"

"It's our signature dessert?"

"Yeah, and TCBY's is frozen yogurt. That set them apart from anyone?! You're fired Bob! Anyone else?"

"We...we make them all in-house?"

"My goddamn mother-in-law makes a cheesecake in  house. And it SUCKS! Linda, get the hell out of here! Next?!"

"Sir, we could try a new process they've perfected in Haiti. It's called Sandcrust and it's made out of sandpaper. Customers can hardly tell the difference, and it's very cost effective..."

"Jim, I like it! It's different...it's unique...it's ethnic...and it'll save us a fortune. I'm promoting you to the VP of Marketing!"

This would explain why everything tastes like crap, and they don't have local beer. Thanks a lot Jim, you're a real fuckboi.