crapside

On Sunday in celebration of the lovely weather Linnèa, Jenny and I drove into New York to visit Lake Chautauqua and wander the lake village and look at the expensive houses. Since it’s still the off season, none of the touristy shops or cafes were open, and on the way home hunger forced us to stop at the only open restaurant we could find: Lakeside Hotel and Restaurant.

It was an unfortunate necessity. As soon as we climbed out of the car we smelled the hot grease of a huge deep fat fryer. Not food: grease. Our arrival further didn’t bode well when, despite the “please wait for hostess to seat you” sign, none of the employees looked at us when we stepped through the door – the only acknowledgments we received came from the creepy men at the bar. (In tiny little podunk towns like the ones scattered across PA and New York, anyone looking remotely fresh and pretty garners attention; most of the women in these places wear stonewashed jeans, hair in last year’s perm and dusty black leather.) After waiting several minutes, I approached the bartender and asked her where we should sit. “Anywhere,” was her sullen response, and we elected to take a table on the outdoor patio.

I saw a guy stick his head out the door with a few menus bristling out from under his arm. I made eye contact and smiled, and he disappeared like a gopher.

That was when I grew annoyed.

Finally the same gentlemen brought a few menus to our table (everything on it was fried), having lingered around the tables of other people already eating their food, and proceeded to scold us for not waiting for the hostess. With sugary politeness and a smile that was all teeth I said, “Well, nobody greeted us and the girl behind the bar told us to sit wherever we liked.”

He got passive-aggressively defensive. I didn’t react, although I maintained my firm overpoliteness (“I’m not taking responsibility for that shit,” I muttered to my companions after he walked away), and after twenty minutes or so our server arrived to take our drink orders. She then proceeded to forget our drinks, forget what we’d ordered, forget to check on us, and forget everything we asked for.

My reward for patience and courtesy was free beer.

The entertainment that evening featured a table full of drunken hicks espousing their enlightened views on sexual orientation in roaring voices. I thanked my stars that I sat with my back to them so that I didn’t need to disguise my facial expressions, which seemed to keep my companions entertained.

The food, when it finally arrived, tasted fine, except for something funny about the coating on the fries. I couldn’t tell if it was the taste of really old grease or lard. The burger was cold by the time I got the condiments I wanted, but at least the cook knew how to grill (or fry) medium rare meat.

Basically I don’t think I’ve ever experienced worse service at any establishment I have ever visited in my life. Further, the next day my intestines decided to voice their hatred of me for what I'd forced them to digest and gave me that post-greasy-food feeling of bloated heaviness and general malbeing.

But the patio was nice and the day was sunny and warm and I was wearing a pretty dress, so while I can’t imagine ever voluntarily eating there again, I don’t consider it a loss. But I've had my fill of fried food for awhile.