If There's a "Help Wanted" Sign on the Door, Don't Go In

That's the modern-day equivalent of "All hope abandon, ye who enter here".  Now that I think of it, any hand-written sign on the door of this place should serve as a warning.

Last night, I decided to treat myself to dinner out.  (It has been a while since I did that, and the neighbors' dogs were yapping me out of my mind.)  I decided to try the Italian restaurant I couldn't eat at a few months ago.  (When I went, during normal operating hours, there was a sign on the door, saying that the restaurant was closed because the owners had gone on their annual trip "to the old country".)

There were many cars outside, which I took as a good sign.  (Any place not crowded on a Friday night, and St. Valentine's day no less, must not have good food.)  I stepped inside and waited, since I saw no sign saying to seat myself.  Unfortunately, I saw no host or hostess at their station, either.

I saw a waiter busy on the left side.  I saw a busboy busy on both sides.  On the right was a waitress who stood at one table, chatting with the occupants, for five minutes.  At first, I thought she was taking their order, but when I saw one guy pick up something with his fork and eat it, I realized they had already been served, and she was just ignoring everyone else in the restaurant.  I should've walked out right then.

Thankfully, the manager (or owner, judging from his "old country" accent) seated me on the side with the waiter who seemed to be doing his job.  It took a while, but he came to take my drink order and promise me "some bread to start".  Eventually, my drink arrived.  Eventually, he took my order.  Eventually, the bread arrived -- after the adjacent table's, whose occupants had been seated after me.  (I got back at them, though.  My entree arrived long before theirs.)

In the meantime, I read half of my book (a paperback mystery).  This definitely is not a restaurant to take a blind date to.  Even talkers would have trouble filling that much time with inane, get-to-know-you conversation, and if you didn't "click" with your date, you'd be reduced to long periods of silence (wishing you had a book -- or wishing you were rude enough to pull it out and read instead of paying attention to your companion) interrupted by, "How long, do you think, until we're served?" every so often.

Both the waiter and the busboy came buy a couple of times each, to ask if I wanted more soda or more undercooked bread twists.  I should've accepted the offer of more bread, since my entree, when it finally arrived, was less than I expected for the price.  It tasted good, even though it was overdone.

I declined the offer of dessert and headed to the cashier stand, where the owner apologized to me.  He said they were short-handed both out front and in the kitchen.  (Duh!)  I politely said that I understood.  He continued to say that one of the cooks (or the cook, maybe, considering the man's accent) had injured his thumb somehow, so it was difficult for him to work.  (Yes, I do enjoy my opposable thumbs.)  He wiped the price of my drink (the least he could do), but I tipped generously.  (The waiter was young, inexperienced, and overburdened, but he had tried gamely.)

When I started my car and checked the clock, I noted that I had been in the restaurant for one hour and forty-five minutes!  No wonder I was able to read most of my book.

I'd like to go back and try another entree, because the food was good, but if I see another hand-written sign on the door, I'm going back to my car.