Yes chef

I haven’t jumped on The Bear bandwagon. Truth is I’m driving it. And the reason is simple: this isn’t bragging, but merely a statement of fact: I saw it first.

I’d read about it in one of my many showbiz magazines (yes I still get magazines-they make excellent reading in the “library”), and thought it looked interesting. Another plus was it also looked like a fine opportunity to bank some marriage points what with it being a show about a restaurant and cooking. I figured the wife would enjoy it, since she's a trained chef herself and has had the rare honor of cooking at the James Beard House.

Yeah, we eat well around here. Have you seen my 32-inch waist? It was here just a minute ago.

Anyway, The Bear - streaming on Hulu - is the story of a world-class chef, Carmen, Carmy for short, played by Jeremy Allen White. He inherits a Chicago sandwich shop after his brother Michael commits suicide, and comes back to run it, eventually turning it into a fine dining restaurant.

The place is filled with brilliant actors each playing a character that is compelling, flawed, funny, heartbreaking, joyous and relatable as it gets.

His “cousin” Ritchie (Ebon Moss-Bachrach). His partner Sydney (Ayo Edebiri). Pastry chef Marcus (Lionel Boyce). Tina (Liza Colón-Zayas), who’s been working there forever. Fak (Matty Matheson, actually a chef in real life), who plays the handyman/fixit guy. Gary (Corey Hendrix) and Ebraheim (Edwin Lee Gibson). There’s also Carmy’s sister Natalie (nicknamed Sugar) played by Abby Elliott, Chris Elliott’s daughter and Bob Elliott’s granddaughter. Comedy pedigree much?

And last but most definitely not least, Uncle Jimmy, played by one of my all time favorites Oliver Platt, who as I’m certain you recall, I wrote about here eight years ago.

From the first frame of the first episode of the first season, The Bear was magnificent. It immediately catapults you right into the insanity of a restaurant kitchen. But for as great as the first season was, the current second season is even better. In it we get the backstories to all the characters, taking them out of the kitchen and bringing us into their real lives. The more we learn, the more we come to love them.

Not going to give anything away, but I challenge you to find better written, acted, directed and moving television anywhere than guest star-packed episodes six (as intense as it gets) and seven (absolutely heartbreaking, ultimately joyous) of season two.

The show and cast are deservedly nominated for a slew of Emmy’s. I hope they take them all.

Enjoy it over and over-surprise!- like I do.

And make sure you’re not interrupted when you’re watching. After all, every second counts.

The most wonderful time of the day

I think breakfast has been hogging the spotlight as "the most important meal of the day" for far too long. It's a new morning in America. And as the sun rises on this new morning, we skip breakfast and go straight to the rightful holder of the title: Lunch.

There are a couple things I look forward to everyday as I make my scenic, freeway-free commute to work. One is the end of the day, and the other is lunch.

Neither ever gets here fast enough.

There's a strange phenomenon in advertising agencies I've talked about before here and here. People take themselves way too seriously. They think they're contributing something—shall we say, more meaningful—to society than they really are.

One way that kind of thinking reveals itself is by not going to lunch.

Apparently some agency people have talked themselves into thinking the work they're doing is too important to stop for lunch (it isn't), if they take a lunch break they'll fall behind (you won't), and that they can't go to lunch because what if the client calls? (News flash—the client's out to lunch).

You see these people in the kitchen between 11:45a.m. and 1p.m., loitering in front of the bad coffee, next to the dirty microwave waiting for it to ding. Then they're back at their desks, typing that Powerpoint presentation with one hand and eating Stouffer's Lasagna, again, with the other.

From where I sit, at the restaurant down the street waiting for my food to be brought to my table, it's a sad existence.

A few agencies I've been at cater lunch in every day. It's positioned as a nice, money-saving perk for the employees. But don't be fooled. Their intentions aren't that altruistic. They knows people take shorter lunches if they don't go out, so they can get more work hours out of them. As if just being there actually equalled productivity.

Anyone who's ever worked with me can tell you that's not true.

Personally, I have to make a break from the compound everyday. I spend too much time there already, and if I don't get out, feel the air, the sun and walk around a bit, it just feels like I'm biding time until my parole hearing.

I understand not wanting to spend money eating out every day. By the time you've split the check with the person who had a three-course meal while you had a cup of soup, and add tax and tip, you feel like you need a co-signer just to pay the check. But I think the more important thing to ask is what's the psychological cost of not going out for lunch at least once in awhile?

I have no idea either, but I'll bet it's pretty high.

Rustic never sleeps

You know the old saying—you can take the boy out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the boy. Whatever. I'd actually hoped that saying would propel me into some kind of pithy segue into this blogpost about the most rustic restaurant you'll ever eat at.

Come to find out I was wrong. So let's just dive straight in, shall we?

This past Sunday we took my son—a newly-minted 21-year old—to the Saddle Peak Lodge for his birthday brunch. The wife and I have been there many times over the years, but not recently. And when we were thinking about where to take him, my wife was the one who came up with the SPL, which like many of her ideas, was a brilliant one (Hear that? It's the sound of me scoring marriage points).

The SPL is definitely unlike any other restaurant in L.A. For one thing, it's not in L.A. You'll find it on the side of a mountain in Calabasas, about five miles up the road from Pepperdine University and the Malibu Colony on Pacific Coast Highway.

Like someplace out of the 1800's, the SPL is built from logs, and has stuffed animal heads hanging all over the walls, looking down at you while you're dining on the superb, pricey food. Maybe it's that I've been to Disneyland too many times, but I kept expecting the heads to turn and start talking and singing like at Country Bear Jamboree. Or maybe the scene from Diner. "You gonna finish that?" "If you want it, just say it!" "Well, if you're not gonna finish it..."

They didn't. But it would've been bitchin' if they did, amIright?

Dining there, you really feel you've gone somewhere away from the city, and time-traveled to a more genteel era. Or a more gentile era, if that's possible. I may be getting off track here.

Anyway, the point I'm getting at is its rustic charm and semi-isolated location (even though only a few miles from the coast and a freeway) makes it feel like more than a nice meal. It becomes an easy getaway.

Unlike the Rainforest Cafe or other fabricated "theme" restaurants, the SPL comes by its rustic charm honestly. According to its website:

"Part roadhouse, Pony Express stop, hunting lodge, European auberge, perhaps even a hint of a bordello, Saddle Peak Lodge has been many things to many people in its long history. For 100 years—some say even more—Saddle Peak Lodge has been a place of enchantment, romance and great dining for generations of those who seek a unique experience."

In case you were wondering, my son had steak and eggs, and to celebrate his new 21-ness, washed it down with a mimosa. I had Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon and a heart-stopping good Hollandaise sauce. The wife enjoyed California Goat Cheese and Broccoli Quiche, you know, like they had in the old west.

Everything was exceptional.

The only suggestion I'd make is if you're going to dine there, it might be a better idea to visit at night. Away from the glare of the city lights, you can see the brilliant light of the stars against the dark blue blanket of the night sky. Also, the restaurant is decorated with lights inside and out. There's a lot of twinkly magic going on after the sun sets, and it brings out the enchanted quality even more.

Not to mention it hides all the bone-dry brush in the canyon that's one cigarette butt away from a raging inferno.

That might be the city boy talking.

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.

Can it

I believe the decline and eventual demise of the service culture started with gas stations (What is this, a blogpost or a masters thesis?!) For the most part that is. Unless you're shopping at Nordstrom - those people are awesome and completely disprove that part about the service culture dying. But let's not worry about that right now. Stay with me.

Where was I? Oh, right. At the risk of sounding like my parents, there was a time when the gas station attendant didn't live in a bullet-proof box, stocked to the rafters with Pepsi, motor oil, off-brand Kleenex, Gatorade and all sorts of heart-stoppin' salty snacks. They'd actually come out to your car, give you a wave and smile and ask you to pop the hood (no, that isn't a euphemism). Then they'd wash your windshield, fill the tank, check the oil - and the tires - all for the price of the gas. No add ons, no extra fees.

But those days, like gas for $1.29 a gallon, are long gone.

Now, consumers are asked - in some cases required - to do things we assumed were included in the cost of doing business.

Instead of the station attendant coming out of the office, we get out of our cars to pump our own fuel, clean our own windshields, check our own oil and tell that creepy guy hanging around the gas pumps that no, we don't have two bucks so he can get gas for his fictional car that ran out two blocks from here.

Despite twelve checkout counters, three of which are open, and one of those a 15 Items Or Less Express Lane, we check ourselves out (no, the other way) at the supermarket. And we put our groceries in bags that we've brought with us.

Thanks to the interwebs, former travel agents, whose value wasn't just in booking a trip, but in letting us know the secret hotels, best deals and off the beaten path places to stay or visit are now serving fries at McDonald's. That's because their occupation has been decimated since we started booking our own flights, picking our own seats and paying a la carte for any extras. Airlines even charge a fee for you to talk to an actual representative on the phone.

We can also diagnose what's ailing us online. Plug in the symptoms, and pages of unreliable, pharma-sponsored medical advice suddenly appears. (I told my doctor I was looking up something on the internet, to which he gave me a disapproving look and said, "Oh good. We HIGHLY recommend the internet.")

Under the camouflage of improving the customer experience, businesses have found ways to cut their costs dramatically by turning many of their job descriptions into do-it-yourself positions. The same way companies tell you how productive open office seating is.

Despite all the personal and intimate information I've shared on here over the years - and really, we have no secrets - you may not be aware I took a Consumer Law and Economics class in high school. It was taught by Mr. Blackman, and was basically a Ralph Nader-esque hour every day, instilling in me the squeaky wheel theory: my right as a consumer to complain and keep complaining until I get what I want. You know, like creative directors.

So in that spirit, I'm drawing a line in the sand, well, in the garbage, at sorting my own trash.

To start with, I have a trust issue with restaurants that ask me to separate landfill items from recyclables. Bless their well-intentioned little corporate hearts, but really, I don't want to work that hard after I eat. I'm too full and I usually need a nap. Besides, there are no guidelines about which trash goes into which bin. One man's recyclable is another man's landfill. I'd probably ignore the guidelines even if they had them, but you see where I'm going.

The best I'll do is not throw away plastic baskets the tacos come in, or the glass bowl for the salad. Silverware however is a cruel tease, sometimes hiding under a napkin and accidentally winding up in the trash. Which is where it stays, because if I want to go dumpster diving I'll do it in Tiffany's trash bins, not Rubio's.

Anyway, I'm done griping now about the way things used to be. I suppose the good outweighs the bad in the end, and the speed at which things can be accomplished by doing it myself is what's gained, even if personal interaction and a more leisurely paced world is lost.

Besides, as long as no one's asking me to do my own prostate exam I'm good.

A laughing matter

I, like most humans, enjoy a good laugh.

Not just a regular laugh. I'm talking about the kind of hysterical, on-the-edge, stress-relieving, people-who-see-you-think-you're-losing-your-mind, crying cause I'm laughing so hard, stopping for a minute, thinking I've got my composure and then bursting out into wailing, crying laughter all over again.

The kind of laughter where you feel like a wet noodle afterwards.

That was the reaction I had to this cartoon the first time I saw it. I can't tell you why it made me laugh so hard. Maybe it's that I've worked on so many fast food accounts—including Taco Bell three times at three different agencies—that it struck me the way it did.

Yes, Taco Bell at three different agencies. It's just the kind of masochist I am.

One of those times happened to be Tracy Locke, which is where I worked when I first saw this. It was the front of a greeting card at a store called Aahs on Wilshire Blvd. in Santa Monica. Chris Bouteé, my red-headed woman, a good friend and a fine writer in her own right and I had gone to lunch at a formerly popular, now defunct westside restaurant called the Bicycle Shop.

After our tasty yet overpriced meal, we walked a couple blocks down to Aahs so I could pick up a gift for someone. We were in different parts of the store, and I happened to be perusing the many racks of greeting cards when I saw this one. And I lost it.

It was one of those laughs that shadowed me the rest of the day (it didn't help that I'd bought the card and kept looking at it). In meetings, working with my art director, kick-offs—didn't matter. I was useless the rest of the day.

By the way, many people think that part hasn't worn off yet.

Anyway, while the cartoon doesn't make me laugh as hard as it did the first time, it still brings a smile to my face every time I see it. I think it's part brilliance of the cartoon, and part of my original hysterical laughter echoing through the years in my head.

The good news is I still laugh plenty in agency meetings. Except now it's to myself, and for entirely different reasons.

Out to lunch

If you know anything about me, and if you've read this blog for any length of time you have no excuse not to, you know I'm pretty much of a social butterfly. I wouldn't go so far as calling myself a people person, but there are people whose company I enjoy immensely.

One way I have of showing it is by scheduling lunch with them.

Here's the thing: besides my brutal good looks, my keen insights, my Twain-like humor (I was going to say rapier wit, but sometimes that word gets misconstrued) and my keenly honed sense of modesty, I believe the most valuable thing I have to give is my time.

Well, that and my Spiro Agnew wristwatch. That reminds me, I have to check eBay later.

Anyway, there are only five lunches in a business week, so I find myself being extremely selective whom I choose to dine with. I have a small circle of repeat lunches I try to have because I enjoy them every time. You gotta eat, but you don't gotta eat with just anyone.

As fun as it would be, I'm going to show a little restraint (just to see what it feels like) and not name names. But you know who you are. You're the people who always have a standing reservation on my lunch dance card, no matter how full it is or how far away you are.

I don't mean to sound like I'm saying people should be happy and grateful they're having lunch with me. In fact, I'm saying just the opposite.

If we're having lunch, I'm the one who's thrilled to be there. I value our friendship. It's something I've carved out time for, and you can bet I've been looking forward to it since we made the plan. Sure I'll have the occasional casual lunch with someone in the outer circle, but my heart's not really in it. If there's a raspberry tart for dessert it's a little better, but still.

Not only am I giving my time, I'm aware you're giving yours. I'm flattered and honored. And if you enjoy our lunches half as much as I do, then I enjoy them twice as much as you do.

It's just that simple.

Packing for the Con

Tomorrow is the day it all starts. Well, the night actually.

Even though Comic Con doesn't officially begin until Thursday, tomorrow night is Preview Night. The costumed crowds get admitted to the Convention Center in the early evening to get a jump on the weekend crowds walking the floor and picking up some merchandise.

Of course I'll be there.

So that means tonight I have to pack. It's something I've never quite learned to do right. You'd think being in advertising and with all the boondoggles...er...business trips I've taken I'd be better at it. I'm not unskilled in the sense I don't know how to organize a suitcase. It's my approach to the job.

I pack on the Just In Case theory. You know, just in case there's a hurricane or blizzard in San Diego. Just in case we're hit by a tornado. Just in case we're invaded by aliens, which at Comic Con is a definite possibility.

Here's what's happened every year I've gone: I drag my overstuffed suitcase to the hotel, and proceed to wear the same pair of shorts for four days. All I really need is four t-shirts (yes Rich, black ones), four pairs of underwear, four pairs of socks, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Maybe a clean pair of jeans, a nice pair of shoes and a collared shirt if I want to go eat somewhere nice.

But when you're in restaurants during Comic Con, and finally seated after a two and a half hour wait, it's not unusual at all to find yourself sitting next to Spartans, Batman, those guys from Game Of Thrones and Loki. Dressing nice becomes a relative term.

So I'll give it another shot this year, with the hope I can be a little more economical in how much I take with me.

Frankly, I think the bigger challenge will be closing the suitcase with this in it.

Walt's Wharf

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. Then, sometimes, you want to go where no one knows your name but you want to go there anyway.

I like to think of myself as someone who likes to mix it up every now and again. Who maintains an air of unpredictability. An edge of danger. I keep spontenaity alive.

I also like to think of myself as six-foot three, one eighty, blond and ripped. But that's not happening either.

Come to find out I'm actually a creature of habit. Today we met some friends for lunch at one of my favorite places, Walt's Wharf in Seal Beach. It's been there forever, and it's always great. At least what I always order is. Because despite a wide variety of fresh seafood, and a wine selection second to none, I have the exact same meal every time I eat there.

Cup of clam chowder with Tabasco. Small Walt's salad with a salmon filet on top. Iced tea. I wanted you to know in case you're buying.

It's a sure thing every time. The problem is I feel like I should try something else. Logic would tell me if my usual choice is so good, other items must be just as good if not better. On the heels of that, I think this meal makes me happy and what am I so worried about.

Besides, since when did I start living my life according to logic? Not a Vulcan, hello.

I'm not going to say feeling bad for having the same great meal at a nice seafood restaurant is a first world problem, but, you know, draw your own conclusions.

Here's what I'm trying to say. If you want to meet me for lunch at Walt's, and you happen to be in a hurry, don't worry. I know what I'm having.

Into the fryer

I was reading an article about how minimum wage employees at McDonald's are going to go after the company because they occasionally get themselves burned on the job. Seems to me if you're working with hot grills, fryers full of hot oil and flames, getting burned just might be an occupational hazard.

Still, it's no fun. I know from experience.

The first job I ever had was at Fisher's Hamburgers at the Town and Country Shopping Center, across from Farmer's Market on 3rd and Fairfax. At the time, Fisher's was one of L.A.'s renowned hamburger places, often mentioned in the same revered breath by burger lovers as Tommy's, Cassell's, Dolores' and The Apple Pan. I'd eaten at Fisher's for years with my parents, and liked it so much I decided I wanted to work there. Displaying an unusual amount of moxie for a kid as young as I was at the time, I went in one day, walked right up to the owner - a man named Howard Shear - and asked if I could have a job. To my everlasting surprise, he gave me one.

I won't go into dates and ages, because that's on a need-to-know basis. And you don't need to know. Let's just say I could only dream of making the minimum wage McDonald's employees get today.

I learned all the details of how the restaurant worked. I made tartar sauce and thousand island dressing (not together) in vats in back that were so big we stirred them with our arms. Still not sure how the health department let that one get by. I also learned how to work all the stations at Fisher's: the register, the grill, the soda fountain, and the french fries.

The fryers were like the ones in the picture - big vats of oil heated to 400 degrees. The way you made fries was by putting raw, sliced potatoes in the basket, lowering it into the oil, and setting the timer for a couple minutes. When the fries were ready, you'd lift the basket out by the handle and shake the excess oil off the fries. In that process, lots of fries fell into the oil. Because of that, the fryers had to be cleaned many times during the course of the day.

The way you cleaned the fries out was by running a strainer over the top of the oil and scooping them up.

One day, I was cleaning the fryer and the handle on the strainer was a little greasy (Strainer? You strainer you brought her. Thanks, I'll be here all week). So I'm holding the greasy strainer handle, and it suddenly slips out of my hand and disappears down into the fryer. Without thinking, my cat-like reflexes kicked into action and I reached down into the boiling oil up to my elbow to grab it.

As we say in my country, not a smart move.

Everything went into slow motion. I looked down at my arm in the oil for what felt like hours, but in reality was only seconds. Next, I realized I could feel it burning and yanked it out (with the strainer in hand - mission accomplished). I dropped the strainer, and made a beeline to the ice machine by the soda fountain and rammed my red, right arm into the ice. To this day, I can hear the sizzling of the ice on my hot skin.

Fortunately, I'd gotten there fast enough. The ice took the burn away, and I had no scarring. Other than the emotional kind for doing something so stupid.

But the most important thing is I learned a valuable lesson I still use to this very day.

Don't go asking for jobs if you don't really need one.

CPK WTF

The California Pizza Kitchen I knew and loved is no more. It was acquired about three years ago by private equity firm Golden Gate Capital.

Sounds appetizing doesn't it?

Originally, CPK was the poor mans answer to Wolfgang Puck's legendary Spago restaurant, which ushered in the era of individual pizzas.

At the beginning, CPK felt upscale even though it was reasonable price wise. There were linen napkins. The waitstaff work black slacks, white buttoned up shirts and black ties. Somewhere down the road they changed to black shirts as well, which made it even more ritzy-ish.

And of course, there was the food.

It's hard to imagine now, but at the time their Original BBQ Chicken Pizza was all the rage. Plus they offered an original selection with toppings no one had thought to throw on a pizza before. California Club pizza (essentially a BLT on pizza dough). Hamburger pizza. Thai pizza. They had those and more - something for every taste.

I can't even count the number of meals, meetings, dates and family dinners I've had there over the years. And because they were a quality chain, from my first meal at the original restaurant on Beverly Drive, to the one in the Mirage in Vegas, to the one on Geary St. in San Francisco, I always looked forward to my meal and knew I was going to enjoy it.

But of course, as my high school girlfriend told me on our final date, there's a last time for everything.

Since Golden Gate Capital acquired them, everything has gone downhill except the prices. The uniforms are now open-collar checked or brightly colored shirts and jeans. It feels more like a Texas Roadhouse than a CPK. It's only a matter of time before there's sawdust on the floor and a mechanical bull.

And under the heading of fix it when it's not broken, they've changed the crust of the pizza to something considerably less tasty. They've taken many of my favorite items off the menu - Roast Garlic Shrimp pizza, I'll never forget you.

They've also done a little Three-Card Monte with the names of some menu items. What was their spectacular Original Chopped Salad is now called the Italian Chopped. And the BBQ Chicken Chopped now has "The Original" in front of the name.

One change I'll admit to liking is the bread, now a more Italian look, taste and presentation.

But the bread isn't enough to justify the ridiculous prices they now charge for a decidedly lower brow, too casual experience. With a family of four, ordering the very minimum we can get by with and no drinks (water for everyone), we're hard pressed to get out for under $60 before tip.

Fortunately, the new owners realized one thing missing from the old CPK was a manifesto - that precise group of words to let the dining public know their philosophy about what California stands for, what it means and why they needed to rework the menu into something really special.

Manifestos are something I happen to have some experience with. I've written my fair share of them, and since Apple have yet to encounter a client that doesn't want one.

Reading theirs, it's apparent to me the words, sentiment and their take on California are as authentic as the notion they won't unload the chain in a heartbeat for the right price.

Winging it

Like so many things, I just don't get it.

I've never liked chicken wings. Ever. From the wrinkled, bumpy skin that looks like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly, to the search and rescue party you have to send out to find any meat on the bone, there's absolutely nothing appetizing about them.

So I'm at a total loss to understand the seemingly endless proliferation of wing places popping up all over.

For starters, they seem like a food from a time when people were a lot smaller and had tiny little hands. Watching people eat them always reminds me of the scene in Big where Tom Hanks is eating the appetizer he thinks is a little corn cob.

Next, why all the different flavorings? BBQ. Cajon. Ranch. Asian. If these things didn't taste like dry little leftover chicken parts to start with you wouldn't have to smother them with sauce just to make them taste like something.

Obviously I must be in the minority because these restaurants are being built faster than mirrored buildings in Orange County.

And exactly at what point was the decision made that celery would be the perfect accompaniment to chicken wings? Maybe after a few too many Bloody Mary's the chef said, "Well, if celery works in a glass, maybe it'll work with chicken wings."

There's no accounting for taste, especially when it comes to these places. But to each their own.

At least I can still enjoy a real meal at the Frog and Peach.

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.