WANT FRIES WITH THAT?

This time of the year the Island starts to bloom. Like the unfurling of a rosebud, restaurants and businesses reopen and the neighborhoods are under attack by an army of landscapers. A version of this essay was previously printed in Martha's Vineyard Magazine.

YOU WANT FRIES WITH THAT?

I should’a known better. I’ve lived on the Island for enough time. But after a long winter with less than twenty restaurants in three towns to choose from I made a monumental mistake. Several springs ago a girlfriend was visiting from South Yarmouth. Now, people from Cape Cod, unless they work here or visit frequently are just as susceptible to those glossy tourist guides as folks from--oh, say--Boise, Idaho. Letting Karen choose a restaurant for lunch was a big mistake.

Even in August when most have a compliment of experienced wait staff, I avoid the places listed in guide books. Unfortunately my friend had her heart set on one of the most famous of them all. A restaurant that opened many years ago as a place for locals and working men to go to get a cup of coffee (regular, no latte or mochachino in those days) and hearty breakfast or lunch. Believe it or not it opened its doors for the first time in January! A time of year that, in this day and age, would guarantee failure. The preceding winter, for the first (and only) time, this venerable institution had closed. Understandable, since over the years it had evolved from a local hangout to a number one tourist destination. And since tourists think we close the Island for the winter, there wasn’t enough business to stay open. Like I said, understandable. It is not a light decision I am sure, since the ramifications are mighty. A restaurant that closes in the winter looses its staff. Most people who wait tables for a living cannot afford to take the winter off. Which means the establishments need to hire new each spring.

And, therein, you should pardon the use of a literary cliché, lies my tale.

It was sometime in the spring, April or May. I remember the daffodils. No roses yet. Parking was not impossible. No lines snaking out the restaurant doors. We were shown a table almost immediately by a charming, attentive hostess. It took a while to realize there was anything wrong at all. We looked over the rather eclectic menu and made our choices, chatting all the while. At last caught up and with little left to say we started to look for a waitperson. Finally our order was taken by an apologetic young man who spoke with an accent so thick it transported us to Dublin. Food on the way we indulged in our favorite pastime, people watching. It was then that we started to become alarmed.

The woman at a table across from us looked quite perturbed. Her companion had a plate of cooling food in front of him, untouched, one assumes, out of politeness. They were both looking about frantically, waving their arms, trying to flag down any employee who’s eye they could catch. This did not seem to be unique. As my friend and I paid more attention to what was going on around us we noticed that what we had taken for comfortable conversation between diners sounded more like an angry grumble. The window ledge into the kitchen was lined with lunches and the chef was screaming, “Orders up!”. The wait staff was running around the room with plates of food stopping at every table asking, “Did you order this?”, then sailing off in another direction. Finally a waitress asked the pouting woman across from us if she had ordered what was on the plate in her hand. The customer nodded in the affirmative and was served. Her companion commented that that wasn’t what she ordered and she snapped, “I want to eat today.”

How was our lunch you ask? Well, we got almost everything we ordered after a slightly longer than reasonable wait. And of course, we got someone else’s check. The hostess apologized and explained the long wait by saying it was opening day.

Like I said, I should’a known better.