This Friday, we went to New Orleans to meet up with a big group of friends. I guess it's becoming a thing, but since the holidays marks a return of out-of-towners who have fled to greener pastures, we end up with a decent crowd of both local and out of town friends. Even if I could remember all of the reasons that I laughed until my face hurt, I probably wouldn't post about them.
(For example, there's a vulgar term for penile-breast sexual contact. I made an educated guess about how you would say that term in sign language. Just the previous sentence is offensive without getting into a description of any signs attempted.)
The next morning, we got up early to see some of our friends off with a good meal at our favorite New Orleans brunch place. Toward the end of our stay, it occurred to me that I should have been live blogging the whole thing. I wasn't, but I'm here to pretend that I was. I assure you that while my memory may be scrambling a few details here and there, this is a very close portrayal of my entire Saturday morning.
|Not so sober men laughing at God-knows-what on Friday night.|
Arrived. After a short wait for Stacie and Mark to circumnavigate a slow moving train, we were seated. My bloody mary starts to sooth a mild hangover, but I badly need a caffeine supplement also.
Our waiter shows up, and we order. He's confused about my order -- the pulled pork hash -- but I point it out on the specials board, and he seems to understand.
Our waiter immediately returns to our table with several plates of food. We have to explain that we'd only just ordered.
Coffees and some other drinks arrive at the table, but not Mrs. theskinnyonbenny's champagne.
Mrs. theskinnyonbenny reminds our waiter that she's waiting for champagne.
Our waiter goes to the corner of the room and pulls a bottle of champagne out of an ice chest that has been there all along. He corks it, sloshes a bit on the floor, and then puts the bottle down on the table without an ice bucket or even a glass. He leaves without a word.
He returns with cups.
My pork hash shows up. Sadly, it isn't joined by any other plates of food.
Out waiter attempts to deliver
Our bacon appetizer arrives. We remind the waiter to check on everyone else's order.
As I finish up my breakfast, we remind the waiter again about our lack of food. He replies, "ummmm....", pivots on his heel, and leaves the room.
Mark and Stacie leave to get McDonald's on their way out of town. Bye guys!
Shelly arrives. While she's standing, I have her cross over to the coffee and get me a refill. Shortly after that, she orders a coffee for herself.
Out waiter brings her an empty coffee cup. She gets up and fills it herself.
Other tables are also wondering what's going on. Heather pours some champagne and passes it down to strangers with the advice that they should just accept any plate that comes their way. We all drink a toast to restaurant servers.
Some more food goes table by table through the dining room. It's possible that I could be Mark's order, but I'm not 100% sure. Eventually, the waiter leaves it in front of a nice lady next to us, even though she's made it clear that it isn't what she ordered and had no interest in it. She moves it to the empty place next to her.
We ask the waiter to start from scratch. Mrs. theskinnyonbenny and Shelly order breakfast.
Our waiter again attempts to deliver random food to our table. We re-confirm the food that was just ordered. He immediately disappears, leaving the empty champagne bottle on the table. I take a quick look around and then decide to just help myself to opening another bottle. More gets poured, and more gets passed down. Three tables are now openly laughing at the main who isn't fit to wait tables.
We ask another waitress to make sure the kitchen really has our order. It turns out that this is her first day, and she's been yanked from her training regiment and added to the upstairs staff.
More random food comes out. One is claimed at one of the other tables, but the others do a couple of laps and return to the kitchen. Mrs. theskinnyonbenny asks the new girl whether the waiter was fired or passed out somewhere downstairs.
"Oh, he's just on drugs or something," she answered nonchalantly. It was like you would answer, "oh, he's just allergic to tomatoes."
Speaking of allergies, I think the answer that the restaurant owner would prefer is something like, "we think he might be having a reaction to some medication." That's what I would go with.
Shelly and Mrs. theskinnyonbenny get their plates. Things seem to be going well now.
We're asked to itemize what we've consumed based on the honor system, since the restaurant has no idea what we ordered or what we received.
We finish up and leave. I find that a bitchy woman in a blue Jetta has boxed me in to the parking lot. I interrupt her breakfast and make her move her car.
I hope she hates cold eggs.
I think I've made it all the way down here without naming the restaurant. I won't. Mostly this is because it's a great place with awesome food, and I've been there lots of times with much success. But if you brunch in New Orleans and are curious, it's that pace right on the river in the Bywater neighborhood.