In an online world of COVID, Karens, and caustic consumers, one must sift out hostility.
You’re hungry. All you want to do is sit down with an icy beverage in your hand and a plate of enticing food placed belly height on the table.
You’ve been traveling, leaning into every hairpin curve of the winding highways that brought you through these gorgeous mountains.
You’ve made one or two stops in quaint towns. You’re good. You’ve bought a couple souvenirs; finito. It’s time to eat.
For 3.5 hours, you’ve been occupying the wooden seat in an open-air car on a 100-year-old train. You don’t care to wipe the coal ash from your hair and eyebrows. You just want to relax, stop the world, and dine.
Perhaps you’ve been up there hiking 13ers. In that case, your body needs nourishment. Stat.
You’ve spent half the day strolling casually through the dusty town you’re in, taking in sights of yesteryear. You’ve got an old-fashioned hankerin’ for some great chow.
No matter what you’ve been up to, eating is part of your mountain escape. It’s a biological necessity, after all.
You are ready to regenerate from your self-inflicted vacation weariness, heading to the dandiest place in the county.
You want to be welcomed, to be served, to be pampered, to be entertained. You want to sit somewhere rustic, somewhere authentic, somewhere charming, somewhere exciting. Somewhere everyone loves to be!
You’ve heard only great things about a famous restaurant in town – one that’s been in business longer than your firstborn has been alive.
Your boss’ uncle has eaten there. Your ex-wife’s cousin raves about the place.
Your neighbor was there just last month and wore his brand new t-shirt to your Saturday golf game to prove it. He explained all about the great time he had, staying later than he intended to, meeting the owner, having a few drinks, laughing and talking for hours. He enjoyed himself so much, he came back for dinner!
You’re determined to have the same experience.
Not knowing exactly where in town it’s located, you type “restaurants” into TripAdvisor. You can’t quite remember the name, but you know there’s a big, fat mustache on the golfing neighbor’s tee.
When you see it there in the top-ranked restaurants, you enthusiastically shout, “Ah! Handlebars!” waking up your tired kids in the back seat.
Passersby stare at you through your open window, seeing you as the tourist you are. No matter. You set the GPS to take you to your destination.
But then… looking closer, you notice one or two of the reviews for your soon-to-be all-time-favorite restaurant are unfavorable.
“Whaaaa-???!!!” you mouth to yourself, seeing that someone selfishly submitted a one-star review about what was looking to be the highlight of your day, and probably your whole vacation.
You have to know what it says! Should you even GO to Handlebars now? This is intrigue!
You give no indication to your family that you will change your mind as you read the words, because you are determined to bite into one of those juicy Colorado-raised beef burgers you’ve heard so much about.
You read the review:
You would never know we were in a COVID pandemic. The place was very crowded. It took a very long time before we were served.
Well, duh, the place was crowded. It’s famous in 27 countries!
And COVID? That caused staff shortages not only nationwide, but worldwide.
Um, Miss or Mister Reviewer Person, you just said that there was a pandemic going on, and you couldn’t believe the restaurant could be so busy. Then you complained about not having the quickest service.
Perhaps – just perhaps – customers have to wait longer. Half of the crew was stuck at home coughing or on the couch in quarantine, due to mandates to protect the public. Have a little understanding, Paranoid Pandemic person, because you can’t have it both ways!
Ignoring that rotten review based on your common sense, you feel proud to know that you’re vaccinated, you’re not a science denier and…you’re not a wack-job.
Besides, one negative review does not a doubter make. You’re getting hangry. And look at your kids in the rear-view mirror: their eyes are hollowed out from starvation. You’re not going to let that one customer ruin your good time.
You’re curious, and slightly entertained by the negative comments. Are there more?
Your finger swipes up again, skipping over so many excellent reviews, to the next one-star rating.
You gotta see what else you’re in for, hoping in the back of your mind none of it is true. Meanwhile your SUV announces there are about 47 seconds until you reach your destination. Your stomach growls.
The next review states something like:
The host at the door was strange and rude. He told the lady in front of us that the special was squirrel. Never in my entire life have I been treated so poorly. We walked out before getting served. I’ll never go there again.
Really?! The worst you’ve been treated in the expanse of your spoiled rotten life was at a mountain retreat of a restaurant that has welcomed hundreds of thousands, if not millions of customers, many of them repeat customers at that? Generation after generation of buffalo burger, chicken wing, onion ring and Rocky Mountain Oyster lovers?
Hey, Lady, did the wry sense of humor the owner used to engage you (and the line of customers waiting around the corner to get into his establishment) shock and upset you? Do you feel slighted… or is it entitled? Are you special?
By the way, you didn’t walk out, because you never got in. The customer is NOT always right, especially when they’re unpleasant.
Did you insist on writing a bad review so that all the unwitting, entitled Karens from your lady’s luncheon group avoid the place as well? Thank goodness you did. They won’t be frequenting the place with their predisposed hostilities.
. . .
“We’re here, Dad,” comes a faint and flustered voice from the rear of your vehicle.
Ah so, your destination is dead ahead. It’s time to park. Your stomach is twisted with famine and your throat is crying out for you to slake its dryness with a locally-brewed beer.
You pocket your phone, get ready for the best meal and fun you’ll be having in decades, and exit your vehicle.
There is a red-faced, grayish-haired man standing at the door to the restaurant. That must be the “rude” host at the door of the restaurant, you observe.
He welcomes you and your family in with a wave of his menus and a hearty smile.
“Normally we have delicious homemade chicken pot pies,” he grins. “But today we ran out of chicken, so we had to substitute squirrel meat. Is that okay?”
“Looking forward to it!” you laugh back.
You’ve arrived, and it’s time to eat.
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