To clear up a point, I went to Buffalo Wild Wings due to its proximity to a critical appointment nearby. It’s been a long time since my last visit. I think part of my hopeful delusion was caused by a couple of other bad experiences recently – and their comparison somehow caused me to abandon all sense and reason. Weirdly enough, my wife and I both thought it might be good, for reasons I can’t recall, as if they had occurred to me in a feverish dream. Honestly, though, what person of sound mind thinks to himself, “We should eat at a place frequented by young males?” I can’t think of a single great place to eat that markets primarily to this same proud demographic, one characterized by the sound of knuckles dragging across tiles. And infinite sports on 345 televisions, all blaring the banal nonsensical chatter of sports. In short, it is basically my idea of hell – and I went in there with OPTIMISM. As Dierks Bentley quipped, “What was I thinkin’?”
Within minutes of being inside, I was painfully reminded of the myriad reasons for my absence.
The first thing entering today: a person training a new-hire walks past, and says “Who the F%%% does s### like that?” in a loud voice, complaining to the person he’s training as well as several employees nearby. I don’t personally mind obscenity – I just normally wouldn’t expect it in from an employee right in my face, absent a great circumstance to justify it, such as a gunfight, light-sabers being unsheathed, or being tackled without warning in the bathroom. It occurred to me that the person he was training was going to learn the habit of cursing like a sailor in front of other employees and customers. What a joy to consider.
Our visit didn’t improve from there. I think the employees drew straws to determine who was being forced to wait tables. The demeanor of some the staff, with the exception of the employee who evidently once manned a pirate ship in order to learn every bad world imaginable (and then practice it at high volume), was one of a captured battalion of soldiers being marched to certain death.
In all fairness, my demeanor at this point could best be described as Scrooge-vs.-Cruella. Had recently-cut flowers been nearby, my surly disposition would have withered them. Using medical terminology, I was “pissed.”
We waited so long that I began to wonder if Search and Rescue was heading my way. I was waiting for The Guinness Book of World Records to call me and tell me that I had successfully achieved “Longest Restaurant Wait Time.” After 30 minutes, I was praying for a loose ceiling tile to fall out and knock me unconscious.
The cheddar fries portion was so small that my wife and I literally laughed when the waitress placed it at our table. I halfway expected her to pull out a dollhouse-size set of plastic cutlery and hand to me. The only way to have reasonably shared such a portion of fries would have been if I had chosen to eat the cardboard boat they were served in. Perhaps the salt on the fries had been made from the delicate dried tears of a unicorn? I’m not certain but someone lost the equation for portion size versus cost.
By the time our food arrived, I was seriously contemplating whether to eat the cardboard french fry boat with ketchup or soaked in water.
After eating my “grilled” chicken sandwich, I desperately wished I had opted to eat the cardboard french fry boat.
I signed the bill and tipped the waitress as a solitary tear trailed down my right cheek, onto the table. My melancholy followed me out the door, as I realized that BWW was another one of those places I would never be able to return to, unless forced at gunpoint – and even then, I might opt for the gunshot.
Tagline: “Because life is too short to punish yourself with bad experiences.”