For most of my dining life, I never complained.
I was the guy who said, “No, this will be fine!” when shown to the tiny little table in the back by the restrooms. I was the guy who said “Great!” when the waiter asked how everything was, even if my steak was overcooked. “This is delicious!” I’d enthuse, even if the champagne was flat.
Who knows what turned me into such a sheep. But I took direction well – from hostesses, chefs, servers, bartenders, sommeliers. I figured they knew better. I did as I was told, ate what was given me, paid in full and tipped at 20 percent without question.
Maybe it’s because we didn’t eat out that much when I was a kid, but for most of my life, whatever restaurant I was in, I just figured I was lucky to be there. I’d better behave or they’d realize I didn’t belong.
I always admired people who stood up and got their way. I knew they were on to something. But whatever gumption they had, I didn’t have, and besides, even when I knew they were horrible, I’d swear that those cold, saltless mashed potatoes on my plate were just fine, thanks.
Several years ago, I started to speak up. The first time was at the now-defunct 2nd Avenue Deli in New York, where I’d come for an afternoon of tabloid-reading and warm chocolate babka after calling in sick. Almost on a dare to myself (or maybe in a Dayquil-induced fit of bravado) I asked the waitress whether I could have a booth instead of a table.
“Sure thing, hon,” she said, and transferred me to a booth. Just like that. Not another word.
The moment should have been forgettable, and would have been for most (normal) people. But for me, it was a turning point.
I’d said something, and it worked. Suddenly, I was speaking up wherever I went. I’d pulled my thumb out of the dike and taken charge of my dinners out.
If I didn’t like the table that I’d been shown, I asked for a different spot. If my steak was overcooked, I pointed it out. If my wine was tarnished with cork floaters, I asked the sommelier to taste it.
My dining-out experiences immediately got better. I sat at better tables, ate better steak, and drank better wines. I started to get what I was paying for.
See, unless customers speak up, restaurants don’t know when something’s not right. And restaurants, the good ones, want things to be right. If things aren’t right, people stop coming, and they go out of business.
There are rules, of course. You can’t send back a bottle of wine just because it’s not to your taste (only if it’s gone bad). You can’t grumble about waiting for a table when it’s still 15 minutes before your reservation. You can’t complain that your vichyssoise isn’t hot enough. (It’s supposed to be cold.)
And there are a number of legit reasons why you can’t have that more appealing, empty table across the room, from staggered seating (which allows the kitchen to pace each patron’s meals more efficiently) to upcoming or late reservations.
But it sure can’t hurt to ask.
Just like it can’t hurt to request a taste of that wine by the glass before you commit to ordering it. Because a restaurant would rather make you happy up front than have you ticked off on your way out the door.
Things have changed for me again, and I don’t nitpick too much in restaurants these days. It would just make me too visible, and it’s too important that I stay under the radar in Denver. But when I see other customers sending back an overcooked lamb chop or asking for a clarification on their bill, I smile.
You go, I think.
Remember: You’re the customer. Therefore, you’re right.
Dining critic Tucker Shaw can be reached at 303-820-1958 or at dining@denverpost.com.
