Pulse

This was a day of contrast, simple as that: two different scenarios–both could have tipped toward scintillating, or both a slog, but I got one of each. What was the deciding factor in each scenario you ask? Service and the people serving the service. I will tell of it here:


Today was symphony day. I had tickets for me and my mother to see and hear the Toronto Symphony play the goodly notes of Shostikovitch’s 5th at Roy Thomson Hall. The performance, stellar and moving though it was, is not the focus here except I must give a shout-out to the whisper-impaired couple two rows behind me who felt that part of my ticket price included the thrill of listening to them talk out loud during the delicate, sacred beginning of the Shosti piece. (I turned and silently summoned a world of misfortune and uncontrolled flourishes of skin tags on them and their progeny. I may have spit fire.) Aside from all of that, the afternoon was wonderfully enjoyable thanks to the legions of Roy Thomson Hall floor staff. Each one we came upon was eager, kind, and witty. Even the young man tending bar was in a good mood and played along when I asked him which wine paired with Shostakovitch. Our seats were on the third level, in section “C,” which I took to mean Celestial, and the journey to them took some doing: we rode two escalators, and scaled several small flights of stairs–all challenging for my mother so we took our sweet time. During that journey–that measured ascent–each attendant we came upon made us feel glad we were there. We had conversations by saying words and then listening. One of us would say something, and then the other person would reply. Together, we explored an idea or sentiment! You’ve likely seen this in movies or possibly experienced it yourself. It’s called communication I think. It was like we were human to each other! 

"Sounds fun," says my inner writing prompter.

It was!

"Then what happened?"

The symphony was a matinee, so we were ready for dinner when all of the applause was over. The area restaurants were all full, so we drove out of the city and ended up at a casual dining, cottage-themed, Turtle Jack’s . 

"And?"
…

"Well?"

You know, I’m not that hard to please. Show me that you’ve got a pulse, and I’m on your side, but Turtle Jack’s was somewhat…

"What?" 
…

"WHAT?"

DISAPPOINTING! We were hungry, happy initially, but also tired. We walked in the door and nobody was there to greet us. NOBODY for longer than was acceptable unless the deal is that you go for the fridge and help yourself. There’s casual, and then there's this. 

"So? What did you do? Did you hurl the bowl of mints into the fire, shake your fist and spit bees as you stormed out in a huff-and-a-half? Did you?"

No. Someone lovely showed up, so I figured it was simply a hiccup and everything else would be fine. That’s what I thought. But it wasn’t fine. We sat at our table, figured out what we wanted, sat for a bit, changed our minds, went back to our original decisions, wondered about the menu font, if there really was a person named Turtle Jack and what kind of terribly deformity might he have to deserve such a title. I think it was the manager, or someone appearing managerial who came to our table and lit the little tea light. Ambiance! We had ambiance now, so I figured that THAT was the sign that things were going to swing on track. There was fire on our table so our presence had been acknowledged.

"Keep telling it!"

Okay, someone young and dressed in waiterly clothing came to our table. He might have been on mushrooms, or had just woke up from a bonkers good afternoon nap. Turtle Jack’s is cottage-themed, as I mentioned, so perhaps he had just come in from water skiing in some of this March snow melt. We seemed to confuse him. Or disappoint him. I’m not sure which. When he approached, I said, 

“Oh, there you are. We were wondering when you were going to show up!” 

 He could have apologized with gusto here, and easily endeared himself to us, but he didn't. He did manage to take our order, but it was if he didn’t quite know what we were. Again, if he had been on some kind of psychedelic enhancer and was reacting to my mother appearing to him as a deck chair, and me having a head that was a trolley with people boarding but never leaving, well, I would have understood.  He served us our drinks, and then vanished. We never saw him again. Perhaps he left to go put the water-skis away.  I hope he’s okay.

"Really?"

I've served tables before and I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, but Jesus!

"Did your food come?"

Yes, we had a new person bring us our food. Okay, I figured that THIS had to be the turning point. I did. 

"And was it?" 
…

"Well?"

Okay the food wasn’t the worst I have ever had. THAT was at Shoeless Joe’s where I had a California wrap that tasted like the floor of a bus. Now to be fair, mom loved her seafood chowder, and the Greek salad was fine. I'll come clean here: I was ready to complain about the veggie burger, but in my effort to be a better person, which is why I had ordered that burger in the first place, I realize that if the service had been at all reasonable, I would have happily eaten it and not given it another thought. I would have been in a good mood! But, since I was losing my happy-and appreciated-customer feels, I convinced myself that the veggie burger was wanting, and held together with ennui and sadness–it had no pants of its own, depending completely on the condiments. That's not fair to the kitchen staff, but that was how it seemed–it happened. 


"What did you do, huh? What happened then? Did ya spike the plate of mediocrity on the floor, hurl the tea light at the bar and summon your inner demon? "

I was deflatedly unimpressed, if that’s a thing. Our second waiter brought the bill, and she seemed put out while my mother pulled cash out of her wallet. She stood back from the table as if mom was pulling bald kittens out of her purse as currency and was unsure of the kitten exchange rate. There was no polite discourse, no passing conversation about the weather, what we had been up to, or why the entry way was full of bees. I felt ignored. 


   I hate feeling ignored more than anything.


We stood, put our coats on and walked slowly toward the door, foolishly waiting for someone to thank us for enduring the disappointment, or fling even a timid, “Come again, won’t you?”

           There was nothing. Not a thing. 

The gang at Roy Thomson Hall would not have let this happen. 


                    God I miss those guys.