Tonight a bunch of us are going out to dinner here in Philadelphia because it is restaurant week, a two week event where local expensive restaurants give prix fix menus for special prices. Poor people rejoice!
Lets stop here on this guided tour of a blog post while we examine something in a little more depth: Restaurant WEEK… is a two week affair. Did you notice that?
When exactly did advertisements get the privilege to openly lie because it sounds better? Lets be fair… "Restaurant Weeks" does not sound very good, in fact it kinda sounds like a skin condition if you say it fast enough and run the two words together (go ahead, try it out) but it is flagrant false advertising!
Personally I like "Restaurant Fortnight", because that sounds exciting. Anything with "fort" in it adds an element of danger! But the Philadelphia chamber of commerce won't return my calls, especially after I bugged them about the tree watching last year.
Nomenclative disasters aside, thinking of restaurants has caused me to come up with an invention that both amazes and disgusts me, and I will present it to you today.
We've all been there. You're out at a restaurant and the service was fine and the food was good, whenever you needed your water refilled someone slid by and BAM, you had a full glass. But after the plates have been lifted and your stomach is groaning with too much deliciousness, you no longer really want to just laze around, it is time to go home.
But something is standing in your way.
Sluggishly, you raise yourself up above the other patrons and peer about for your waiter, like a nervous meerkat spying about for a hawk, but your server is nowhere to be seen! Five minutes pass, then ten, and still no sign of assistance. Now you're starting to worry that something awful has happened, your waiter is stuffed in the trunk of some car on his way to a bookie-style knee cap beating but you can't leave without paying the bill.
Then HOORAY! Your server appears… carrying… someone else's food… You try to catch his eye… but no, your relationship has suddenly fizzled. Attempt after attempt results in not even a subtle glance, now that the food is gone, you are dead to him. Like so many high school friendships your connection has gone kaput.
So what is a patron to do? With my new invention, the problem goes away. Presenting:
THE TIP CLOCK!
You set this little beauty on the side of the table and it ticks down percentage points over time. If you start out intending on giving a 20% tip, but have to sit there waiting for 30 minutes, you set the Tip Clock to visibly count down so that, by the time your bill finally comes, its down to 11%.
Now YOU can't be held responsible for giving a bad tip, you were open and forward with the waiter. Blame the Tip Clock. The percentage was going down the whole time in plain sight.
Now, hopefully you can see why this idea disgusts me. Sitting here writing this, I feel like the world's biggest asshole. Most of the time it isn't the waiter's fault (some waiters… different story), but I prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt.
However, when you're sitting there, so stuffed full of beef bolognese you just want to crawl out into the street and fall asleep but your goddamn waiter is gleefully ignoring you so hard it seems as he is mentally dancing through a field of gillyflowers while you try desperately to draw his attention. Every head nod, hand flick and eye jerk is getting patiently and potently ignored… over and over and over again until you just want to explode in a ball of overstuffed RAGE.
Well… for FUCK's SAKE, watch your fucking tip evaporate, jackass!! AUGHHHHHHHHH…
The Tip Clock, only three easy payments of 19.95. Available wherever mean-spirited products are sold.