Give me Some Ol Time Class

Now in the new millennia many of us have forgotten what it’s like to be treated well while eating out, and sadly, we have grown grossly accustomed to being mistreated by those we pay. It’s shocking really, but whenever someone in the hospitality industry treats me with a shred of respect and dignity, I feel so grateful, that I essentially end up thanking them for doing their job. How this reversal of roles has come about, I’m not sure. Though one thing remains certain, true hospitality is a dying art form. At times I feel like I’m a lost boy in Neverneverland, clapping my hands together just so I can revive this once beautiful creature as I yell, “ I do believe in service, I do believe in service!”

Admittedly, living in Spain has made me appreciate what little service American restaurants provide. Most people assume Europe, with its lazier fair attitude toward meals would offer excellent service, none of that in and out business so to speak. Though this aspect of European dinning does exist in Spain, really, my issues come down to the little things, like having to wait 15 minutes before I’m even shown the menu. Also irritating is being turned away from a restaurant simply because the seating is full. Even the lowest of the most unrespectable of places, like McDonalds, would take your order in America, or at the very least make a waiting list. I had a notion to introduce this nifty idea to the Spanish. Alas, I refrained, figuring their gesture was one of kindness. They didn’t want me to wait and so they turned me, a potentially paying customer, away.

I had almost given up all hope of seeing any hospitality again, in Europe or American for that matter, when I unexpectedly stumbled upon this gem of a place called La Paparrucha, an Argentinean Steak House that specializes in good food and more importantly, hospitality. My dinning partner and I arrived a few minutes early, but no problem, “Please, would you come out to the Terrace and have an aperitif of dry port with some locally produced cheese?” Speechless, I followed the host as he led us out to the patio, which sat atop a cliff overlooking all of Lisbon. With the sun setting, a cool breeze passing through, and a glass of port with cheese in tote, I was flying high on cloud nine. How could this get any better, I thought? Oh but it did. After a leisurely drink, our host returned and told us our table was ready.

Already laid upon our table were fresh empanadas, bread, an olive tapenade, humus, and meat and cheese platter. Order it? No, that’s just the standard table setting at La Paparrucha. We ate our fill as we browsed the menu, eventually deciding upon the grilled flank steak for two, medium rare of course. As we sat, our bottle of wine came and went, as did our main course, which was cooked to perfection and presented on a sizzling hot grill. All of my senses were stimulated. The smell of the seared beef, the sound of its fat crackling, how juicy it looked just sitting there, waiting for me to taste it, and the feeling of my teeth ripping it apart. Nothing was overlooked. Everything was flawless. Romance was not just in the air, it was in the food, the wine, and the growing intoxication of knowing that should I need anything, someone would come and see that it was done.

When the bill came, I wasn’t surprised. Yes, we paid for the port, the spread, the bread, the water. But that’s Europe. Nothing is free here, nor should it be. I will gladly pay a little more just to be treated once again, like a person. However, I guess that’s easy for me to say, I wasn’t the one picking up the tab. The meal was on my sugar daddy.