In German, there’s a word for the good feeling you get when other people suffer misfortune. It’s called shodenfrood, or maybe sheudanfroud, or something like that. Don’t pretend you care how it’s spelled, because if you don’t already know the word, you already forgot what it means. I only mention it to sound smart.
Anyway, I get a similar good feeling when I experience especially bad service at a restaurant. It’s different from shodenfrood, or shoedenfreud, because the server is often quite happy and is suffering no misfortune whatsoever. The thing that makes me feel good is that I own two restaurants and I know that we do a better job, most of the time anyway. I call this restaurant-related smugness shitundfood, which may or may not mean something in German.
I got a healthy dose of shitundfood last night at a new upscale Chinese restaurant. To be fair, the place is very new, and they haven’t ironed out the wrinkles. Still, some wrinkles are larger than others. Our first clue that dinner might have some bumps is that the server was a young blonde woman with a British accent. Now, I love the Brits, including my ancestors, but one thing you do not instantly think when you hear a British accent is “Mmm-mmm, there must be some tasty Chinese food around here somewhere!” I applaud this restaurant for hiring the handicapped, but it did not add to my culinary experience.
My second clue that service would not achieve 5-star status is that our server pulled up a chair and sat down at our table. She leaned in on one elbow and started to chat. She appeared tired. As I eventually learned, it can be exhausting to give bad service. I hoped she had enough energy to bring our food to the wrong table before she collapsed. I suppose if I had been a more open-minded person, I would have appreciated her earthy charm and friendliness. Instead, I spent the entire time concentrating my thoughts on her forehead and thinking as hard as I could, “Go away. Go away. Go away.” This did not work as well as I had hoped. She chatted about her own dietary preferences and exercise routines until I forgot that we hadn’t asked.
When we got around to talking about us, we asked for her advice on the choice of vegetarian entrees. She helpfully pointed out that soy is very bad for your health. Did I mention that this was a Chinese restaurant? Every other dish had tofu or soy sauce. That’s right – she told us that half of the food at her restaurant would harm our health. I realize that many of you did not realize you could get health and science advice from a British server at a Chinese restaurant, but you can. I was about to order the garlic snap peas and a colonoscopy, but my wife stopped me in time.
Shelly had a late lunch and wasn’t very hungry. She just wanted some soup, and there were two choices: 1) The one that they were out of, or 2) The one our server described as “just a couple of meatballs in some broth.” Yummy.
We were new to this restaurant, and ignorantly expected some water to show up at the table. This did not happen. We waited long enough to be grateful for our napkins, which had been thoughtfully provided on the table without begging. A fellow who looked like a server delivered our food, and we took the opportunity to ask him for some water with our meal. He said, “You have to ask your server for that.”
There were many problems with that response. For one, our original server was by now, in all likelihood, wrapped in tablecloths and napping in the walk-in refrigerator. Second, this new guy sure LOOKED like a server. You would think he could handle a request for water. I chose not to give him an icy stare of death, because frankly his response was funny, but I don’t think Shelly hit the pause button on her death stare quickly enough. Soon the not-our-server guy was backpedaling and offering to find our authentic server to bring water.
“What is your server’s name?” he asked.
We didn’t know her name, but if the only way I could get some water was to go to the walk-in refrigerator and rifle through her pockets to find some identification, I was willing to do it. You don’t want to eat spicy Chinese food without water.
“She has a British accent,” I said, hoping for a workaround.
“Is she kind of a ‘big’ girl?” he asked, as if there were lots of female servers in this Chinese restaurant with British accents, presumably one in every size.
Eventually we did get our water. The food was bland and, according to our server, would make me grow man-boobs. But the lighting was excellent and the prices were fair. I’d go back, if only for another delightful dose of shitundfood.