A few weeks ago, my husband and I decided it would be nice to have dinner out somewhere, since we’d accomplished a lot during the day on house projects. Plus, I wasn’t entirely thrilled to have to clean the kitchen and cook. I did some research online and narrowed it down to Macaroni Grill, Carrabba’s, and PF Chang’s. Himself doesn’t really care for PF Chang’s, and I didn’t think I could stand to watch him eat our favorite dessert at Carrabba’s that I can no longer have. So, Mac Grill it was.
We haven’t hit Mac Grill since we moved, so I thought we’d try a new location. We went to the one in Mesa near Stapley and Baseline. As we drove up, it entirely failed to occur to me that we’d be trying to get seats at 7pm on a Saturday night, and attempting to get special food (for me).
When we used to go to Mac Grill in Reno, we’d usually sit in the bar section. Mainly, ’cause we used to smoke. But now, it’s great on crowded evenings, because it’s open seating, so you don’t have to wait forever with your little buzzy machine waiting to tell you they finally cleared someone out. So, we scored a booth in the bar, which is actually far nicer than it sounds.
Our waiter comes by, says hello, and that he’d be right back to get our drink order. He comes back and we order our drinks – Coke for Junian and Pellegrino for me. I also tell him that I’m going to be a little difficult with ordering, as I can’t have dairy or wheat. I specifically ask for no bread, either. Junian doesn’t care for it, and I can’t have it. The guy says that’s fine, and we’ll things out. I take this auspiciously and hope for the best.
On his next round, he drops off the bread.
After that, the drinks, which were mercifully correct.
Junian orders his food (two entrees, actually) and I order mine. I say that I want the rib eye with no pasta and grilled asparagus. I remind him that I’m gluten-free (seems to be easier for most people to parse than “wheat-free”). Then here’s where things get bad. So, I checked out the GF menu online, and made my decisions at home. When I got to the restaurant, there was this warm spinach salad on the menu that looked to maybe be okay for me (menu description – Wilted spinach tossed with prosciutto, roasted garlic and fresh lemon and olive oil. Topped with crispy pan-fried goat cheese). So I asked him (the waiter) if it was gluten and dairy free. He looked at me with this disparaging look and said “I don’t know that. No one could possibly know if everything on the menu has gluten in it or not.” He sighed and said “We have a gluten free menu…” I said, “Yes, I know, I read over it online, but this item wasn’t on the online regular menu, so I thought I’d ask if it might be okay.” He says, “I don’t know. I told you, no one knows what’s gluten free. I’ll get you a menu.” And he left before I could say anything else.
During the next ten minutes while we’re waiting for him to come back, I’m thinking “no one can know what’s gluten free or not”? Bullshit. You’re a waiter. It’s your JOB to know what’s gluten-free or not. Seriously. And he was not nice about any of it at all. It’s hard enough ordering food like a freak, without having people treat you like you’re second class because you’re asking for something out of the norm.
He finally comes back and hands me a hastily printed out copy of the gluten-free menu that’s posted online. He points out that the spinach salad isn’t on there. I replied that I knew it wasn’t on there, but I was wondering if it could be modified so that it could be safe. He starts in on his “No one can know everything” spiel when I finally said, “Well, is there someone who -does- know? Can you ask someone?” He gets this horribly put-upon look and makes some kind of vague assent. I say thank you very graciously, trying to mend bridges. I don’t really care about this guy, but I don’t want him to spit in our food, and it’s been long enough that I’m starving and I need to eat, regardless of if the guy is a shmuck.
He returns in about five minutes and says that he caught the manager and asked her, and she said that the only gluten in the thing was on the croutons on the pan-fried goat cheese. I’m thinking, that’s it? I tell him, yes, please, I’d like the salad, minus the goat cheese and croutons.
In another 15 minutes, he brings out the food. Junian hasn’t gotten a refill on his drink this entire time. The spinach salad looks okay. Junian’s food looks okay. My rib eye has a huge glob of “steak butter” on it. I sigh, but take it. I immediately take off the butter, but of course some of it has melted on to the steak. I originally said I can’t have dairy, but like everything else, I guess the waiter just didn’t care. The menu description does not mention steak butter, so I didn’t even think to request it to not come. And seriously, who butters their steak? The only reason to butter steak is if it’s an inferior cut of beef, imho.
Sigh. I start in on the spinach salad, which is pretty good. I have some of the rib eye, which is all right, but entirely not worth the fuss. I nibble on some asparagus. Junian pretty much devours all of his food (Mama’s trio and the new mushroom ravioli). My stomach starts to act up. Oh well.
The entire time we’re eating, the waiter doesn’t even come by the table. Only at the very end of our meal, does Junian get a refill of his Coke, and that’s -only- because he flagged down the waiter, who was very carefully ignoring us. Guy brings the Coke, asks us if we want dessert. I say no, just a box. Junian asks for the dessert menu – they used to have this lovely caffe latte cheesecake with chocolate ganache. They took it off the menu quite some time ago, but he figured he’d look, in case they brought it back. No dice, unfortunately. The waiter comes back, asks if we want dessert, and we decline. He brings our bill, and that’s the last we see of him. I tip a little less generously than I normally do, and we leave. He doesn’t even have the grace to say goodbye.
If I was feeling better and had more energy, I would have asked to speak to a manager. But I’m still coming to terms with this whole thing myself, and even I think it’s a pain in the ass. My luck, I would have gotten a completely unsympathetic manager who would have given me some excuse about how it’s a busy Saturday night. So I just stewed internally.
On the way out, there was a couple waiting outside to be seated. Trying to be nice, I go up and ask if they’re a party of two. They look at me like I was speaking Lithuanian and nod slowly. I say with a smile, “Well, there’s an open booth in the bar section and it’s open seating, if you don’t want to wait.” They just continue to give me this smile-and-nod-and-maybe-the-crazy-lady-will-go-away look. I shrug and walk off.
Bastards, the lot of them.
Even when my stomach gets better, you can bet we’ll never return to that Macaroni Grill ever again.
