Megan visited a couple of weeks ago, and we decided to go to a restaurant that she had read about. It was called The Melting Pot.
It’s actually a pretty innovative chain with several locations around the country (the one we went to was in Tulsa). It’s an upscale, swanky restaurant with a dark and earthy décor, but its true claim to fame is how they cook and serve their food.
They believe in the great art of fondue, which involves cooking something in a communal dish over a small burner. Basically, they provide the food. You get to cook it. And they charge a little bit more for the “experience.”
Sound like a rip-off to you? Yeah, me too, but I decided to humor Megan and go along for the ride.
It was a disaster.
The beginning was pleasant enough. A lovely hostess sat us down in our private booth and told us that our waiter would be with us shortly.
When he finally arrived 20 minutes later, he looked like an anvil had just fallen onto his head.
He was dazed and confusing, mumbling, “Hi, My name is Chris and I will be your server.”
We looked up at him. He looked down at us. Then, there was silence. Horrible, awful, awkward (but not awkward in the cool way) silence. We were just waiting for him to say something, anything at all.
Like… “Our specials today are…” or “Do you have any questions…?” or “Is this your first time at The Melting Pot…?” or “What would you like to drink…?” But he said nothing. Nor did he leave the table. He just stood there.
Finally, I spoke up.
“Yeah, I’ll have a Coke,” I said.
“Oh, OK,” he said.
Then, I thought better of it. “Actually, I’m going to need something with a little alcohol.” So, I ordered something with both booze and chocolate (how could one go wrong with that combo?) and Megan also ordered a drink.
He didn’t write down our drink orders. He just said OK. It was like a bad sitcom plot getting ready to unfold. He wandered anyway.
“What is up with that guy?” I asked Megan.
“I know,” she said, laughing. Then, we realized what the date was. It was April 20, or 4/20. For the older generation out there, this is the date where every degenerate young person feels like it is appropriate to puff the dragon, as they say, or engage in the marijuana.
Yes, on 4/20, we went to a restaurant called, “The Melting Pot.”
You can’t make this stuff up. So much for leaving all the stoner hippies in LA.
Sure enough, another 20 minutes later, he arrived with the wrong drinks. Having had plenty of experience dealing with high people thanks to my time in Hollyweed, I told him to just leave the drinks, make sure they were free, and go back and correct our order.
Eventually, and I mean eventually, we got our food. The food itself was good, but the service was as bad it could have possibly been. I probably should have said something to the manager, because this meal was far from cheap even with our freebies, but I avoid confrontation whenever possible.
So I just stiffed him on the tip.
I only gave him $4.20 — still more than I wanted to give, but it allowed me to feel witty. And isn’t that what life is all about?
The Melting Pot, the restaurant with the world’s worst service.
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of driving home as an emergency interruption comes across your radio.