Turning Shit into Gold since 2006
Anytime the idea of dining at a Denny’s restaurant is entertained there are two instinctual reactions that occur. The first one usually goes something like this, “Yes! Denny’s! I love their bottomless coffee refills, their comfy booths, and their endless array of breakfast combination’s is so enticing!” The second reaction is a tad more reality based and goes a little something like this, “Damn, there are way too many noisy kids with food in their hair in here. Am I really about to pay upwards of $10 bucks for a plate of food I could make from scratch?” No matter what your feelings may be, once you have entered the establishment it is hard to escape the bustling atmosphere of the eatery.
In most any Denny’s I have visited there are two kinds of wait staff to be encountered. There is the ever-present veteran, the guy or gal who offers the perfect amount of service that allows for maximum dining satisfaction. Beverages are steadily refilled without conversation interruption, orders arrive without mishap, and the check is delivered face down in a timely manner. The service is so dazzling that currency permitting, a tip triple the bill is deserved.
Then there are waiters like Chance. A pudgy slug in a sloppy apron is the best way to describe him. The way he shamelessly loafed about among his seven table section was enough to send most sane paying customer straight to the to-go line. Unfortunately this hazy Sunday called for an in house eating experience and Toto, Dupa, and myself were literally willing to take a chance on his abilities.
The first sign of his complete incompetence came when he attempted to memorize our simple set of orders, pitifully butchering his repeat back of what we had each requested. Between the three of us we had one Grand Slam, a side of hash browns accompanied by two over-easy eggs, and two cups of coffee. Hell, I took orders bigger than that when I played ‘restaurant’ as a little kid in my grandma’s living room without completely fucking up. When he shuffled from our table with that unmistakable look of a Special Olympic gold medalist on his face there was more confidence in me growing an extra belly button then Chance returning with the proper tray of food.
There is definitely a fine line between acceptable service and sub par service, no matter how burned the bun or lumpy the oatmeal may be, but Chance’s efforts went way beyond lines and erased any faith we once had in the food service industry. I had fully intended to mix my eggs and hash browns into one tasty concoction, savoring the meshing of crunchy and milky textures. Instead I washed the hash down with the yolk ten minutes later, while Dupa swirled her cold coffee in agitation. Toto’s wallet was feeling the weight of the $15.19 bill that was eventually placed before her after our plates were removed by a woman with smokers wrinkles under her eyes. Her kind, raspy voice hid the anger that was rising inside her as she watched Chance blankly take another order two tables over.
Sure most meals at a place like Denny’s end up coming back to haunt you and your butt a few hours after consumption, but it is usually the quality of the service that either lures you back or repels you back into the arms of a modest bowl of Cheerio’s in the morning. Chance definitely made us all go home and look deep into the depths of our pantries for a cheaper alternative to our next time breakfast needs.