Waiter Approved

This week, I visited my parents in Florida where we spent our days swimming, sunning and, of course, eating. The first two we somehow managed on our own. The third activity apparently needed guidance and approval...at least according to our waiters.

The first night, we went to a restaurant specializing in fish. Our waiter, an elderly German gentleman (and by elderly, I mean 110), eventually toddled over to give orders, I mean take our orders.

My dad and I opted for a fish which the menu suggested be served broiled. "Good choice," our waiter's head bobbled vigorously like one of those dolls glued on the dashboard of a runaway car as he scribbled busily in his pad. "But you want it pan seared; it is better that way."

"Also, you want the steamed vegetables with that," he directed without so much as glancing up at us. "Now, what kind of salad do you want?"

"Um, Caesar?" I ventured hesitantly, afraid that if I made a second wrong choice, I might be rapped on the knuckles with his pen, or worse, subjected to another head wagging, and I didn't want to be responsible for his chiropractic bill.

Thankfully, I got only a brief nod of approval before he moved on to my mom. Whew!

Not one to be easily intimidated, she opted for a steak (it's a bad habit of hers and we are staging an intervention over Christmas). Ah, but our waiter was prepared for this ruse. "How do you want it done?" he queried slyly.

"Rare," came the ready reply, teamed with direct eye contact (my mom is not from New York for nothing.

Bzzzzzz. Thank you for playing. "Medium rare," he corrected, dismissing her feeble attempt to maintain control of her diet. Apparently, being German trumps being a New Yorker. "And for a side? Also steamed vegetables?"

"I'll have a side of pasta," she threw him a curve ball. "And the house salad with thousand island dressing." I held my breath and watched him from under my lashes, but her choice of salad must have mollified him because he let the whole pasta issue go without comment.

The next day at lunch, we once again needed to seek the approval of the wait staff. My mom and dad got it immediately with their sandwiches, but mine was a bit harder to come by. I had opted for a chopped salad where I got to select the ingredients from a whole case of prepared choices. Fortunately, each choice was greeted with a hearty, "Good one," by the waiter/chef. Until I got to the dressing. As he listed the choices, I hesitated a moment, contemplating which of my two favorites I felt like, the balsamic vinaigrette or the raspberry vinaigrette.

I had barely pronounced the B-sound when the waiter jumped in, finishing the thought for me.

"Balsamic is, of course, the only one you would want with this kind of salad," he decreed, already scooping up a dripping ladleful. "Good choice." Okaaaa y. And for my beverage? How about dessert? Maybe you can advise me on which table to sit at so that the salad will be presented in the best light?

Dinner that night, lunch the next day and dinner my last night there proved to be more of the same. We got mildly chastised for all ordering chicken (albeit three different kinds) at the Italian place for dinner. We got beamed at and all but patted on the heads like good little boys and girls for ordering fish and chips and shrimp cocktail. Ordering a warm salad with beets and Gorgonzola cheese brought our server to a happy place, but trying to refuse the ice cream sundae that came with the meal at Friendly's was a real downer for our server there.

My father, who hasn't eaten sweets in about fifty years, finally caved and ordered a strawberry ice cream (which he palmed off on me) just to avoid the tears which were threatening to overflow from our waitresses eyes. I have never seen anyone work harder to push a topping either. "Nuts? Sauce(she then proceeded to list all eighty-seven choices)? Fresh strawberries? Whipped cream? Crumbled cookies? Anything? Everything? " How about nothing?

Dejected, but not totally defeated, she slumped away only to return with our sundaes: one plain strawberry ice cream, the other loaded to the gills with all the toppings we had refused. "See," her baleful glance said as she put my mom's down with a flourish, "all this could have been yours, had you chosen wisely."

I'm thinking that when we go back for Christmas, we may have to eat in more. I just can't take the pressure associated with ordering a meal down there. I don't want to be responsible for that much unhappiness during the holiday season.