Between the appetizer and the coffee can lie an oasis of gastronomic delights... or a disappointing and miserable episode to be borne and then blotted from memory. Herewith, a few real-life horror stories of bad dining experiences suffered by lovers of fine cuisine. Every word is true...

WHEN IN ROME (or LUZON)...

 My friend Lane is a musician, a gourmet, a world traveler and a gregarious fellow. He is a man of the world, but there are limits, even to his abilities to adapt to the new and different. While in the Navy, he was stationed in the Philippines. Touring the local clubs, he met a young Filipino musician, and struck up a friendship. This fellow invited him to attend a party one evening, and Lane gratefully accepted the offer. Ever the polite guest and not wishing to arrive empty-handed, he brought along a gift of a bottle of fine Jack Daniel's whiskey. Arriving on the scene that evening, he found the party in full swing. He made his way through the press of guests and found his host, who showed him around his home.

Lane presented his gift, and the Filipino graciously explained that he didn't drink alcohol. After an awkward moment's silence, he suggested that they sample the buffet. Lane spied several dishes that seemed quite appetizing. "Mmm; I can't wait to dig in," he said. "Ah, good! You like dog?" said the young man, handing him a plate. "Pardon me? Did you say... dog?" asked Lane. "Oh, yes; we eat quite a lot of dog. It's very good!" his host explained. "Oh; really? How nice..." Lane managed to say, fighting off a rising dread. "Umm; what's this dish?" he asked, pointing to a different platter. "That is also dog, but older dog. We stew them to make them less tough" explained the Filipino. "Here; you'll like this. It's meat from puppies. Very tender! Try some!", he said, as he piled several choice morsels on Lane's plate.

Well; here was a social quandary... Lane had already risked offending his new friend by offering him liquor, and now he was in the position of having to refuse his food. "I had puppies as a kid--but we don't generally eat them in the States. I mean, I'm sure it's good, but..." "Don't you like to try new things?" asked the host. "I'm just not sure I can eat puppies," said Lane. "Meat is meat! Try some, my friend. Taste it and tell me you don't like it" he was challenged. "Well, for that matter, whiskey is only water with a bite to it. Why don't you give that a try? I tell you what: I'll eat a bite of dog for every swallow of Jack Daniels you put away; how's that?" he countered.

The gauntlet was thrown... From here on, I'll let Lane tell it: "I handed him the bottle of Jack, he gave me a plate full of dog meat, and we smiled at each other. I shoved a big wad of pup into my mouth as he cracked the seal on the bottle and took a deep slug of the whiskey. I chewed, he sort of swished the liquor around in his cheeks, and we both swallowed. We looked at each other for about three seconds and, in unison, we threw up! Then he vomited again, and that set me off again... We apologized, then forgave each other, and I mumbled some lame excuse and got the hell out of there. Man; I was never so glad in my life to see crummy old Navy food as I was later that night..."

THE LAST GOOD MEAL IN TOWN

Each summer, we spend a week at a beachfront condo down south. It's a typical beach town with the usual attractions and my wife has relatives there. Dining is a bit sketchy; a few seafood places cater to the tourist trade, but there's nothing special. Most of the food is the same, deep-fried institutional fare you find everywhere. The year before last, we discovered a new, first-class restaurant right in town. The decor was bright and cheerful, with fresh flowers, fine linen, elegant silver, china and crystal gracing the tables.

We couldn't believe our good fortune! I introduced myself to the chef/owner, and expressed my joy that we'd found this bright island in a sea of local mediocrity. He bought a round of drinks for us, and we toasted good food, and those who enjoyed creating and consuming it. The next evening, he sent a complimentary bottle of fine wine to our table, and thanked us for our repeat business. We left at the end of the week a few pounds heavier, and well pleased with our discovery.

Later that summer, the town was battered by two major hurricanes which did tremendous damage. The next year all we could think of on our drive down was whether or not Chef ------- was still in business. We arrived to find the restaurant intact! After getting settled in at the condo, I phoned to make dinner reservations, and was told that they were closed. I hung up, and almost immediately the phone rang, and my wife's aunt asked me if I'd heard about the restaurant. "Why're they closed today?" I asked. "The Chef committed suicide in the kitchen this afternoon" she said. "He had to rebuild the place twice after the hurricanes, and everyone knew the business wasn't doing enough to keep them out of the red. He just shot himself."

I was completely stunned! My first reaction was disbelief. I'd shared a drink with him last summer; he couldn't possibly be dead! My next thought (I'm ashamed to admit) was "Where the hell am I going to find a decent meal in this town, now?" This gracious and talented man had such a way with food that just the memory of his cooking sustained me for an entire year. I had been salivating for just one more fabulous meal from his kitchen-- which I'll never have another chance to enjoy now. Nor will anyone else. I hear the place has closed down and become a carpet showroom or something equally boring. What a terrible loss, in so very many ways. Goodbye, Chef-------; I'll miss you.

SEVEN DAYS BEFORE THE MAST

A couple of years ago, my wife and I took a Caribbean cruise. Not just any cruise, though; this was one of those "fun" voyages you've seen advertised. This pretty much meant that one was supposed to drink non-stop and to engage in all sorts of silly and humiliating organized group activities aboard ship. I should have known better. Fun, for me, generally means an absence of stimulation, and not drunken pillowfights at the swimming pool. We thought we could escape this mandatory fun by heading for the dining room and relaxing over dinner. Wrong...

I should have known that dinnertime was also fun time. Our busboy was constantly doing loud, annoying, "magic" tricks. "VOILA!" he'd blurt, and brandish a dinner roll he'd produced from a napkin-covered basket. "HOOP-LA!" he'd shriek, and place a pat of butter on your bread plate. "PRESTO!" he'd yelp, as he put a spoon on the table. "Oh, for God’s sake…" I'd mutter, trying not to make eye contact with him. Our waiter was a small, nervous man with a thin, sibilant voice. It blended perfectly with the conversation from the other 200 tables in the room. The result was that we could never hear him clearly, nor did we understand a word he said all week. Not one word… A typical mealtime exchange, verbatim:
ME: "What’s the special tonight?"
WAITER: "Zzzz, nnn, rrr, bzzz nnnrrr."
ME: "Pardon me? What was that?"
WAITER: "NNNZ! HSSS, BZZZ RRR SSSS!"
ME: "Uh, fine; I'll have that, please."…. and so on.
After a few attempts to decipher his speech, we gave up and switched to simple declarative sentences. Thus, every meal became an adventure. We eventually nicknamed him "Buzz".

As I raised my fork to my lips, the lights went out, and I stabbed myself in the chin. A second later they came up to triple brilliance, slamming my pupils shut and causing me to poke myself in the cheek. The sound system blared into life and I flinched, spasmodically flinging a chunk of prime rib across the room. Another burst of music and a squeal of feedback sent my hands to my ears, and I knocked my potatoes into my lap. Glasses and silverware clattered to the floor all over the dining room and my first thought was "They've booked METALLICA to play the dinner show..." No: This was the signal for the nightly parade! Out trooped dozens of "singing" waiters (many of whom lacked truly polished English skills, and were lip-synching). Up went my stress level, and away went my appetite, as they plowed their way through 17 choruses of "HOT, HOT, HOT!" while carrying flaming dishes of Baked Alaska and Cherries Jubilee. This demented conga line snaked through the room, circling the tables. I expected someone to get doused with fiery liqueur and to run shrieking for the railings. That would have been great fun, but alas; no such luck. The evening passed without any real harm to anyone-- unless you count the fork marks in my face and my dry cleaning bill.

I desperately wanted to eat a nice meal (or even the mediocre cruise-line food equivalent) in peace, but each night this parade was the main feature of our dinner. I became convinced that I had discovered a new circle of hell, previously unimagined by Dante when he wrote THE INFERNO. One could never be sure exactly when it would start, so every night I began to tremble and twitch uncomfortably in anticipation of the first blackout. Jittery, sore of face and covered in food stains, it became increasingly difficult to relax and enjoy a meal. Somehow we survived. (Two magic words: Room Service.) The only way to decompress from this whole experience once we were ashore again was to spend an entire weekend in a Chuck E. Cheese. I tell you, being surrounded by screaming kids celebrating their birthdays seemed like a cozy, hushed, Christian Science Reading Room by comparison.

DID WE ORDER... THAT?

I was at lunch with 3 other programmers at the Blackeyed Pea restaurant in F----C-----. We were about finished with our meal when we noticed that there was a cigarette butt at the bottom of the little stainless steel butter container -- butter that we had been putting on our rolls. We told the waitress and she replaced it. (Note: The restaurant was jammed full of people).

Later the waitress brought the check. We told her that she couldn't be serious after the cigarette in the butter issue. Surely they didn't expect us to pay? She said she would get the manager. Another woman came over and said that since we had eaten "most of our meal" already, we had to pay.

We resisted, and she said she would get the owner. He came over and what follows is as much of the conversation as I can remember. He was very loud and everyone in the restaurant kept turning around to look and listen...

Owner: "The waitress says you expect to get the meal for free?"

Me: "Yes, I think it's customary when something like this happens. We eat here all the time and have for years."

Owner: "Well, you have to understand, a lot of people come in
here and try different tricks to skip out on the bill."

Me: "But I said we've been coming here for years."

Owner (shouting): "Yes, but do you know what I have to put up with? Customers go into the bathroom and smear feces on the walls !!"

(Other patrons are listening and not looking happy).

Me: "Maybe we should talk about this elsewhere."

Owner: "I have to put up with this kind of crap all the time!"

Me: "You know, we could just call the health department."

Owner (still shouting): "I wish you would! Maybe they can
get my employees to listen to me! I can't do a goddammed
thing with them!"

Me: "I really think we could talk about this quietly elsewhere."

Owner: "Look, just this once I'm going to cover the bill, since I want you to come back."

Me: "Thanks, that's all we ask."

...We never went back.

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