Last night had been one for the books.
It was my sister's 21st birthday, and we all went to this French restaurant that just opened in August. The food on their website and on review blogs look great, and the price wasn't very overreaching. When we got there, we got awed by the overall ambience of the place. It was once an old Spanish house converted into a small but very cosy, very quaint restaurant.
The waiters weren't exactly friendly, but they were accommodating. (I was wondering if perhaps they were told to act exactly like the French.) They gave us free caviar for appetizers and handed us the menu (an iPad). There weren't a lot of food to choose from. Most of them, because they aren't really exposed to European cuisine a lot, ordered black pepper steak because it sounded familiar. I had quiche with salad and my sister had braised chicken with pasta. The food arrived after a while and then we dug in.
None of us really liked what we ordered. My sister's chicken was tasty, so was the fish, but everyone thought the siders left so much room for complaint. No one liked the rice and no one finished their meal completely. The desserts, however, were perfect.
So then my uncle who has a reputation for having a hard-to-please palate made a bet with us, quite jokingly, about having the bill waived. If he could get the manager to let us go without paying, we would have to do his laundry. We all thought he was joking, so we agreed, even though his laundry heap is about as heavy as a teenager. See, in America, restaurant personnel are afraid unsatisfied customers might sue them, so they bend easily to complaints. In the Philippines, however, you pay whether or not you had to forcefully choke down your food. But my uncle is a businessman and he doesn't believe that it's a cultural thing. So when it was time for us to pay the bill, my credit card ready for our waitress to take, he stands up and in a tone hovering between courteous and menacing, tells her how he thought of the food. The waitress turns pale and fidgets, obviously unfamiliar with this kind of situation. Before she could defend the food, my uncle drops the bomb on her and tells her that he wants our bill waived. I swear the waitress looked like she wanted to faint. She then calls the supervisor who tells my uncle that it wasn't possible to have the entire bill waived. The least they could do is give us another round of dessert for free or a discount.
I thought this would satisfy my uncle but he persists even more and demands that they call the manager or the owner. The supervisor and our waitress leave us to call the manager/owner and we had time to wallow in agonizing embarrassment. We all just sat there dumbfounded and just ashamed; hoping they wouldn't let Uncle have his way. Auntie Vawn kept hitting him with the napkin and telling him that what he was doing wasn't funny anymore.
Waitress and supervisor came back and told us they just got off the phone from the manager and that everything we ate was on the house! Come on! There were nine of us! We ordered a lot! I must say I've never felt so embarrassed and guilty in my entire life; it felt like we were robbing the restaurant. I look at my cousins' faces and I know they feel the same way. But perhaps, no one more than I do, because I was the one who picked that restaurant, it was my name in the reservation, I was the one who was supposed to pay everything.
Everyone, except my uncle who looked very triumphant, walked out La Maison Rose wearing faces of criminals who know they should be sent to the gallows but for some strange reason are set free. We took Uncle's laundry with heavy hands and went home knowing we would never ever, ever forget that night.
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