One of the many perks of my courageous struggle, turning my head at alcohol and plodding through life boring and sober is that people are adamant that I get whatever else I want to drink. I guess since I can't chug martinis anymore, my friends and family actually pre-order my beverage before I arrive, lest I be brutalized with a wine list or forced to listen to cocktail specials.
I arrived at Quince to find Melissa sitting at the bar.
"Hello! Happy Birthday! I tried to order you a Diet Coke."
"Oh thanks." I said, looking around and finding nothing matching that description.
"I was told they don't serve diet product."
Oh. Well pardon me.
What's that about? Do they have regular Coke? Not that I would ever drink regular Coke, but is this a general soda snobbiness or a forced heath issue, forbidding me to consume aspartame amidst the fine art and hanging chandelliers?
That being said, the lack of Diet Coke is my only complaint about Quince. My brother gasped to discover they'd printed "Happy Birthday Beth" on top of the menus and our hilarious server let me believe it said that on every diners' menu, all night long.
"Oh yeah. Everyone's wondering who Beth is! I told them not to make eye contact with you and you'd prefer not to be recognized tonight."
That's basically all I need to fall madly in love with a restaurant until the end of time. Actually, I selected this birthday destination based solely on San Francisco Magazine's report that the "dining room is dapper enough to stand up to Willie Brown."
Shut up. Just...shut up. You had me at dapper.
Based on my ridiculous system of rating restaurants, which factors in ambiance and over the top snobbery above all else, Quince was fabulous.
But no 'diet product'? It's not like I wanted a fucking Lean Cuisine...
2 comments:
Hahaha. That sounds like the Quince I know and love. Of course, I can't actually remember anything we ate that night. I do remember my sister's boyfriend getting up from the table and bolting out into the nightt for no apparent reason. He came back 10 minutes later with a horrible story about barfing in the bushes on Montgomery while a bunch of kids in an SUV honked at him.
The vomiting had nothing to do with Quince. Just a coincidence.
Man, as an insulin dependent diabetic, I'm tempted to get all up in arms about this, if I were the up in arms type...
Post a Comment