I’ve been saving up all these “good” ideas for posts for FOR-EV-VER, because this is a new blog and I want to put my best food forward from the start.
This is not one of those good ideas.
But it’s recent. So we’ll just roll with it.
First off, let’s just do away with any pretense that I’m like this natural, healthy, organic “I only cook at home so I can be sure of what’s going into my kid’s food!” moms. My kid has been in the 10% for weight his whole life… as long as it has calories and goes into his mouth, I don’t really care THAT much.
Yesterday, after a mom-and-son day at the zoo, I was hustling home to put him down for his nap before he went all Dawson’s Creek on me. I didn’t want to have to get home and fix lunch, since he was already tired and beginning to employ some Pacey like facial expressions, so I decided to stop and grab something quick to eat. Someplace with reasonably healthy option and food all ready to go.
Boston Market, right? Not a bad plan?
I walk in and the dude behind the counter shouts (though I’m less than 10 feet away) “HIHOWAREYOU?”
I turned and looked outside… perhaps he’s saying hi to a friend across the street?
Oh–me, he meant me. ”Er… I’m good, thanks how are you?”
“Oh, uh, well sorry to hear that. Hopefully you don’t fall asleep with your cheek pressed against the rotisserie, eh?”
Take you a second to separate it all out? Yep, took me a second too.
…something about the chicken. What about the chicken, weird dude?
“But this is Boston Market.”
Er… ok I can make this work. Turkey wouldn’t be bad.
As he’s making me and Tucker up a few plates, a man walks and and the dude gives him the “NOCHICKEN” shakedown. Unlike my bewilderment, this man is PISSED. ”This is the third time in a week I’ve been in here and and you’d don’t have chicken!” and storms out. Is there a chicken storage? I can see them spinning in that rotisserie back there. Is there a black market for BM chicken, and they’re saving it for elicit backdoor whatevers?
Ew… I just realized that Boston Market’s initials are BM. Most unfortunately for them.
Ok, let’s get back on track here… and to the point of my 1 year old NOT being a sex offender. In summary, the food was bad. BAD. Tuck wouldn’t eat it, I couldn’t eat it. I walk up to the manager who is walking around. She’s like, I don’t know, 10 feet tall and probably does UFC in the staff lounge on her breaks.
“Um… (woo please don’t smash my head down on my neck like a barbie doll) Hey I hate to say this but the food was bad. My meal and my son’t were pretty inedible… the potatoes… the turkey…” I’m explaining to her what was wrong and I notice out of the corner of my eye that Tucker had reached out to her and was patting her. As a 20-month old he likes to give high-fives, and if someone doesn’t respond he’ll high-five whatever he can reach… arm, face, knee… he’s not picky.
I assume this is what he’s doing and I look down to grab his hand when I realize… he’s not patting, he’s… um… stroking… her boob.
Yep. That just happened.
Olga doesn’t even seem to notice but I’m mortified. ”Oh my god I’m so sorry”
“Ok hold on I’ll be right back”
I’m replaying the incident in my mind. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked? Tucker’s arm was extended, hand right on the boob… moving around, maybe patting… yep, it’s as bad as it looked.
I briefly consider just bailing. Perhaps Olga has gone to call the police. Or is rounding up her team of UFC fighters meandering in the back. I only have Tucker to back me up, and frankly he sucks in a fight.
Then she’s back, she hands me a business card with “one free meal” handwritten on the front. And walks away. I instantly switch into disgruntled customer again, thinking “what? No Apology? No itemization of what was wrong?”
It took me a second to remember my son had just got to second base with her, when I thought “nah, we’re good” and left.
Bottom line, I have a business card worth a free meal at the worst Boston Market this side of Texas if anyone wants it. Because I’m pretty sure Tucker has a 100 yard barrier to worry about now.