What looks good?

As someone who's binged Breaking Bad ten times, seen every single show—not tour, show—that Bruce Springsteen's done in Los Angeles since '78, stays standing at the craps tables long after my legs and budget have given out, and drinks Coca-Cola with the same joy and frequency as Eric Northman necking (see what I did there?) on True Blood, there's a slim to none chance of anyone ever accusing me of doing things in moderation.

But even with my compulsion to over-enjoy things I like, there are places I firmly believe a little moderation is in order. Menus for example (Menus? In order? Thanks, I'll be here all week).

I think the number of items listed on a menu should be like the food itself: not too little, not too much. Just enough to satisfy. When I'm hungry, I don't want to sit down with a spiral-bound menu the size of the yellow pages and read through it. I want to see sections I like, find the item, get the order in and start scarfing.

Of course what makes a monster menu easier to navigate is the same thing that makes shopping on Amazon quicker: knowing what you want going in. If the menu's that big, they'll either have whatever I'm in the mood for or probably be able to whip it up.

At the restaurant, not Amazon.

For my dining dollar, the best menu in town is In-N-Out.

Simple, friendly, easy to navigate in a hurry, it's essentially the same as it was the day they opened in 1948.

They're a little sly about the fact they have more items than they list, but with the tiniest bit of detective work you'll find the additional dishes on their not-so-secret hidden menu.

What's great about the hidden menu is when I ask for something no one around me sees on the displayed menu, I feel like a real insider, a person in the know. It makes me feel special.

Okay, it's just a hamburger place, but I'll take my self-esteem where I can find it.

Where was I? Oh right. To the everyday diner, the regular In-N-Out menu is a quick glance and an easy decision, which is exactly the way menus should be at every restaurant. To be fair, I suppose there's a certain mood-setting that happens when you have to ponder the menu for a while. But if I'm at a restaurant, my mood is already set on hungry.

I'm not gonna lie, after all this talk of menus and food I'm starving. It's probably time to drag myself out and get something to eat.

Right after I finish Season 4, Episode 7 of Breaking Bad. Again.

Limited menu

I'm married to an insanely great chef. She has a degree in Culinary Arts, she's cooked at the James Beard Foundation in New York and she was a pastry chef at an upscale, white tablecloth restaurant called Amis. She's one of those frustratingly creative chefs who can open a cabinet, see a box of rice, a bottle of syrup and some week-old crackers and whip up a spectacular meal from it. Including dessert.

Needless to say we eat pretty well around here.

You'd think with all the meals she's made for the family, and all the years we've been married, some of that culinary know-how would've rubbed off on me. You'd think that. But you'd be wrong. Cooking wise, I'm still pretty much at the same skill level as when I came into the marriage. One thing I know how to make, and make pretty damn well, is meat squares.

Hang on, I'll tell you.

First you go to the market and get some ground beef. A pound, two pounds, three pounds depending on how many people you're feeding. Then you mix it up with ketchup, onions and some salt and pepper. Mix it up good, and flatten it into a square Pyrex dish. Place in oven at 350 degrees for twenty minutes, then serve to a grateful, hungry public.

I know meat squares isn't the most appetizing name. It even sounds like a euphemism for something far less savory. But when you bring that hot meat square out of the oven—I prefer using the Hello Kitty oven mits—I guarantee mouths will be watering. They may be watering for something else, but still.

The other dish in my pre-marriage repertoire is a little item I like to call the open-face, reverse turkey melt. Here's how it goes.

Take two pieces of bread, I prefer sourdough. Then squirt the ketchup of your choice into a design of your choice on each of the slices. Sometimes I'll make a happy face, other times it'll be the sun with ketchup rays emanating from the sides. One time I tried to do the comedy and tragedy masks, one on each slice. Let's just say tragedy won out.

Next, put a couple slices of turkey on each slice of bread, and sprinkle some shredded pepperjack cheese over each slice. Then put them your toaster oven for four and half minutes at 275 degrees.

When the little bell dings, out comes a hot, cheesy, delicious, almost real tasting meal.

Of course, the good news is I don't have to make a meal for myself very often. It's intimidating being married to someone who can cook anything when I'm only limited to a couple dishes of my own. Don't get me wrong, I can do a few other things. Eggs scrambled or over easy. Put pasta in boiling water. If I'm feeling particularly healthy, even steam some broccoli. But those things aren't my creations. I just know how to do them.

As a gift the wife gave me two cooking classes at Sur La Table not too long ago. I took the first one, which was called The Ten Things Every Chef Should Know.

In my cookbook, number eleven is meat squares.

Don't ask: Sharing my food

Here's how it's supposed to work.

I go to a restaurant with friends or family. We each look at the menu, and everyone orders something they're in the mood for and that will, in a delicious and pleasing way, satisfy their hunger.

What's not supposed to happen is for one or more people at the table to decide they should've ordered what I did, and ask me, before they've even had the first bite of their meal, "Do you mind if I have a bite of that?"

Before you ask, the answer is no.

Nothing is more annoying, rude or meal-joy sapping than having someone ask for a bite of my meal. You see that plate full of food you ordered and they brought to you? Here's a thought: eat that.

If I decide at some point to offer you a bite of my food, then that's another story. But this "Oh that looks good. Can I have a bite?" crap has got to stop.

I want to enjoy my entire meal. That includes the bite you're sacrificing your pride and self-esteem to beg for. Grow up, make up your mind, order what you want and be satisfied with it. And even if you aren't, act like you are. You can always order what I'm having next time.

Besides, if I give you one bite of my meal, what's to stop you from wanting another?

That's a rhetorical question. I'm not giving you one bite.

A tip for restaurants

I enjoy going out to eat. Whether it's alone or with friends and family, it’s one of life’s little luxuries and I’m grateful I’m in a position to do it almost as often as I like.

I also happen to enjoy good service. It’s like great art: you know it when you see it. And when I’ve been on the receiving end of an attentive, prompt, knowledgeable, intelligent, humorous, caring, alert food server, I have no problem showing my appreciation by saying it with cash in the form of a generous tip.

What can I say. I’m a giver.

What I don’t need is a Gratuity Guideline on my check. Especially one that starts at 18%. If the service has been lousy, 18% is going to be an impossible dream for the server.

For me, this has exactly the opposite of the intended effect. Instead of being grateful for them doing the math for me, I resent the fact they want me to consider the tip at a certain starting amount, regardless of the quality of the service.

From what I can tell, most of the time the wait-staff is a little embarrassed by it as well.

If they’re going to give me guidelines on how much I should leave for a tip, I’d like to offer restaurants the following guidelines on how to run their business.

First, hire people who want to be there. Really nothing worse than a waiter or waitress who makes you feel like they’re doing you a favor by taking your order. Don't make me wait until the mood strikes you before you come over.

Make sure your staff knows the menu. Enough with “I’ll check with the kitchen.” They should know the menu as well as they know their next audition time. They should also know the ingredients in every item, if substitutions are allowed, and what the specials are.

Remember the reason we’re there is because we’re hungry. The fact their job description has the word “wait” in it shouldn’t be taken literally. Whether they’re bringing the food or an expediter is, it should arrive promptly and hot if it’s a cooked item.

Clear my table as you go. I hate trying to navigate the battlefield of used plates, glasses, soiled napkins and silverware. No I don't want to "hang on to my fork." When you bring some, take some away.

Find a balance. Don’t come by every two minutes asking if everything’s alright, but don’t disappear entirely either. Strike a balance between being a good server and annoying the crap out of me by asking me questions every few minutes while I’m trying to enjoy my meal. And when you ask, it'd be better to do it when I don't have a mouthful of food.

Do laundry. Whether you wear your own clothes on the job or the restaurant provides a uniform, make sure it looks clean and crisp. It not only reflects on you but, in the same way a clean car runs better, it makes the food taste better.

Don't bring the check in the middle of the meal. And don't say, "I'm just going to leave it here. Take your time." When you bring the check before I'm anywhere near done, what you're really saying is, "Here's your hat. What's your hurry?" The other thing the check says is you're done with me. And I don't want you to be done with me until I'm done with my meal.

Stop upselling me dessert. I know this comes right out of the manual and you're required to do it. But be the William Wallace (look it up) of the dessert tray and strike a blow for independent thinking. If we've had enough food to feed an army, and look like we're going to explode, don't ask about dessert. Just bring the check.

There's definitely more advice I could dish out, but that seems like a good start. Don't worry about tipping me for it.

It's on me.