Don’t Come to the Islands
This is going to be a bitch fest. Hold on… I clicked the “bitch fest” category box so I trust you all are sufficiently forewarned. So no bitching that I’m bitching, okay!
After leaving work this afternoon, I was intent on being in a good mood. I’m pretty tired of moping around, missing R, and I really didn’t want to spend another evening in a funk. Nice that I didn’t decide to do this in the morning, as to not spend the work day in a funk, but hey… I smell progress.
Instead of cooking this entire week, I rationalized to myself that I was going to take some time off from the kitchen (I really could do those dishes, but, whatever). I cook a lot when R is here. R impresses upon me how much he enjoys home cooked meals when he’s back since he’s forced to eat out so much when he’s away. (Bachelor quarters = no stove! Who knew?)
Part of me always questions how anyone could ever get sick of eating out. Another part of me questions if R is only telling me he likes my cooking, not unlike how I suspect my dad convinces my mom he likes her silver ‘do - one doesn’t want to waste the money on the dye job and one doesn’t want to waste the money on eating out. I’m not naming names.
I don’t know that for a fact, my dad very well may love my mom’s silver ‘do (he calls her the silver fox, which admittedly is quite cute). Just as R very well may love the home cooked meals as much as he says he does.
The few items (turkey burgers, shrimp, salmon) I bought at the grocery store this weekend have slowly, day by day, found their way into the freezer - to be cooked at a later date. While I have found myself every evening craving a new take-out dinner.
Tonight - it was Islands. I haven’t been in months since R thinks they’re overpriced for what you get, and, it certainly doesn’t help that what we do get from them - is always messed up. It never fails, something is always missing.
I called the order in and before going to pick it up, I swung by F&E to pick up some beer. Yeah, another day, another F&E, another craving. Blue Moon, to be exact.
I wanted to be irritated with the fact that F&E stocks an inordinate amount of Bud Light in their cooler, while 12-packs of Blue Moon (slice of orange!) and my 2nd choice, Bohemia (slice of lime!) rest on the warm shelves. I decided to brush it off, though, since with R gone I couldn’t justify having a dozen beers in the house. Actually, I can justify it all day, it’s my ass that would object. TO THOSE JEANS!
I grabbed a cold 6-pack of Stella (sadly, no citrus) instead and I was content with that. Stellllllllllla! Did you hear Tori Spelling named her daughter Stella? Inn Love is on right now, isn’t it ironic? I know I should, but I can’t bring myself to hate her or her swarthy looking (in pictures) husband. I KNOW, RIGHT!
I grab the beer and head to Islands to pick up my Wiqui Waqui BBQ Chicken Salad.
I immediately get accosted by one of the servers in what can only be attributed to the tragic “my boyfriend just got deployed and I’m not going to see him for months” façade that I imagine myself carrying around these days. Seriously, the men are coming out of the damn woodwork. It’s like they can smell “desperado” on me… or, they THINK they can. *shake fist*
The server even went so far as to go in search of a highlighter to highlight my receipt to showcase that I! Have been chosen! For a $5 off! Coupon! On a future visit! If I just! Participate! In this survey!
Sweet.Ass.Justice.
I thank the guy, grab my bag and go. I speed racer it home because I’m suddenly hankering for that STELLLLLLLLLLLA! And salad.
Upon taking the salad out of their way too large to-go bag (I hate to see wasteful use of plastic. Has anyone bought a Bluetooth from Verizon lately? MY GOD), I immediately notice the barbeque sauce is missing (so are the tomatoes but I’ll forgive their absence, oh yes I will).
I know that sounds weird, bbq sauce on salad, but mixed with the ranch it’s really quite tasty. I still decide I’m going to enjoy the meal, as I have bbq sauce in the fridge and I’ll improvise.
Upon closer inspection, however, I also notice the jicama is conspicuously absent.
Son of a bitch.
I’m a huge fan of jicama. Jicama makes that salad. Without it, what you get is lettuce, chicken, cheese and some nacho chip strips. With Ranch. For $11 and change, with tax.
Now, I’m mad. Before even taking a bite, I dig that (highlighted!) receipt out of my purse and begin my survey. All 1s (dissatisfied!) across the board, save the servers. Try as I might, I can’t hate being hit on… and the girl behind the counter was pleasant as well.
After giving this less than stellar survey, I still received the code for my illustrious coupon while the robotic voice urged me to visit the website to further voice my displeasure. So I did.
I emailed, in part:
There is nothing “waqui” about this salad. When I place my order, I expect all of the ingredients listed, not half of them. I want the jicama and the bbq sauce. These ingredients are what make this menu item interesting. If this location is out of these items, I should be told at the time I place my order.
I’m extremely dissatisfied that this continues to happen. If this salad has too many ingredients for your servers or cooks to remember, than you should advertise it as such:
Lettuce, chicken, cheese, chips, and ranch dressing.
But then, no one would order it, would they?
I know, bitchy. I’m aiming for the Wall of Shame. I hope they print it out, pass it around and laugh. Right after they send me a $20 gift card for my trouble. We’ll see what happens.
After all this, I’m starting to think R might be onto something. In light of that fact, I’m SO cooking tomorrow. Honey, you win.
P.S. I love you, too, Dad.