Dining Out, Marx Brothers Style

by Gerry Mandel

First of all, I’ll admit the meal was not bad. Actually quite good, once I had distanced myself from the accompanying events. The occasion was dinner with two close friends, Julie and Steve, at a popular seafood restaurant in an upscale suburb of St. Louis. We were seated at a quiet table after only a fifteen minute wait past our reservation time, not bad for a popular place on a Friday night. The bar scene was incredibly lively and joyful. TGIF still has significance, even in this day and age. The bar was packed three deep, with a vibrant assortment of beautiful men and women, under fifty, quite fashionable, energized and quite verbal. Which is why we were seated at “a quiet table.”

These were the preliminaries to the meal that would become a slapstick scene out of a Marx Brothers movie. Follow me closely on this. Our waiter was named James. Some friendly banter after he appeared at our table revealed he was a wanna-be actor and screenwriter. He had even spent some time in LA, trying to write and sell plays (who writes plays in LA? You go to NY for that!) and finding just as little acceptance as an actor. One thing for sure: He wouldn’t ever get a part as a waiter. That’s just not within his range. Tell you why.

James shows up with three glasses of water, one for each of us. He sets two of the glasses down. So far, so good. Then he places the third glass on the dividing line between two adjoining tables. They are not of equal height, so guess what. Right. The glass of water falls over, soaking the adjoining table (unoccupied), the table cloth and napkins, the wine list. James recovers nicely and, with a forced giggle, swoops up the soaking mess, hurries away and dispenses with it. Then he returns to take our drink order. Smooth sailing from now on, you’re thinking. Oh, so wrong.

Steve orders his usual glass of Pinot Grigio. Julie orders a Bombay gin martini, on the rocks. I order a Tito’s vodka Gibson, straight up. James doesn’t write it down. He’s an actor. He memorizes. And I’m convinced it’s locked into his mind. He returns several minutes later with our drinks. Pinot…okay. Julie’s martini is served straight up. My Gibson is served on the rocks. Sorry, James, I say, We need a do-over here. He apologizes again, laughs again, and takes our drinks back to bartender hell. Many minutes later he returns. Steve has waited patiently before sipping his Pinot. Julie’s martini is fine. Gin. On the rocks. My Gibson is straight up, as ordered. But there are no onions. My drink is naked. “James,” I say, “where are my onions?” He gives me a silent “oh, no” and dashes off, returns - with a large plate bearing one onion on a toothpick. In a good-natured way, I tell him I really need more than one onion. Like, two. Maybe even three. He brings three of them. I put them into my drink, pause to anticipate the joy I’m about to experience, and take a sip. Ahhh, all is well, I’m thinking.

But I’m wrong.

My drink is not a Gibson. A Gibson, simply, is a martini with cocktail onions instead of olives. What I am holding is a gimlet, which is vodka with Rose’s lime juice, a cloying sweet drink that went out with the Charleston. My mother drank gimlets, which is probably what did her in. I scream for James. A quick exchange, an explanation, he’s gone and several minutes later he brings a beautiful Tito’s vodka straight up. But no onions. “James…the onions?” He’s off in a flash and returns with threes onions on a toothpick. I dip them into my drink, take a sip, and…ahhhhh. All is right with the world again.

It has taken only a half-hour to get our drinks right. I hesitate to ask Steve if his Pinot has gotten warm. He doesn’t complain. We toast to happy days, good health, and less comedy at our table. But the story doesn’t end here. Stay with me, please.

I see a plate on our table with olive oil and other stuff swirled in with it. It sits alone. There is no basket of bread next to it. I point to the plate and ask James, “What is this?” He tells me it’s oil and spice to dip our bread in. “Bread! Aha!” I say. James stares in horror, forces another smile, and says, “I’ll get you some bread.” Which he does, several minutes later, fresh from the oven, which is why it took so long to get here, at least according to him.

I’d like to say it ended there. But listen to this. We ordered our main dishes: mussels for Julie, salmon for Steve, sea bass for me. It is all served hot and delicious. But, several minutes later, Steve has finished his salmon before Julie and I had finished. James was right there, doing his alert waiter thing. He whisks away Steve’s plate and asks him if he’d like a dessert menu. That’s when I stop my light-hearted, forced good-natured approach and throw a warning at James. “Don’t touch another plate until we’ve all finished eating, James. Not another plate. And don’t mention dessert until all our plates are empty and gone.” He backs off, a little surprised by my intensity.

Many restaurants in St. Louis instruct their waiters to get those plates off the table as soon as they can. I don’t know why. It’s just a really dumb move. It makes the people who are still eating their main course feel like they’re late, they’re slow eaters, they’ve gotta move on, eat fast, finish now and pay the bill. Some of the finer restaurants Ive been to in Big Cities have their waiters wait, until all at the table have finished. That’s class. That’s civilized. If I want to eat and run, I’ll go to a cafeteria.

Looking back, the three of us agreed it was a most memorable dinner. We had a lot of laughs. Fortunately we are good sports and were in no hurry to leave. One thing for sure: we’ll always remember this dinner. and I’ll make sure I explain clearly to any server what a Gibson is, and what it is not, even to the point of embarrassment. If the waiter doesn’t know, at least the bartender should.

Yes, I’ll go back to that restaurant some night when I’m feeling down and need a few laughs. I just hope James is still working there. And has gotten a role in some low-budget movie, maybe as a pickpocket or a musician, but certainly not as a waiter. Unless it’s a comedy.