This past weekend, after our monthly meat delivery to Burlington, we went to Leunig’s Bistro for lunch.
Leunig’s can be hit or miss, not because of the food or the service (except that time we roll our eyes about), but where you get seated. Every patron wants a table window-side; we are no exception.
My husband Dan and I wound up center aisle at the back of the resto, where patron’s elbows are a foot away from eachother - no matter - we high-fived our lucky-duckiness about having been seated right away.
I’m a fan of Leunig’s gluten-free menu, and willing to put up with minor inconvenience to be friggin-happy faced, reeking of roasted garlic and dribbling onglet au jus.
They were slammed. We adjusted our expectations and prepared to enjoy fancy eating off-farm no matter how long it took.
Despite our optimism, other patrons did not allow us to completely immerse ourselves in the experience.
Unappreciative Thinny. Emo Girl and Doornock Daddy were having a compulsory custody weekend. She sulked and texted head-down, briefly poking at her salad - delivered on time – I might add, at a better table than we had garnered. Neither spoke. They could have been equally disinterested in a joyless corner.
Patois Ah-Chooer! A Quebecois group of four sat to our left. Suddenly, the man seated closest to Dan let out a ferocious sneeze, considerately away from his friends, but angled at me. I absorbed and inhaled strains of virus that will, at the very least, cost me a week’s income in downtime.
(I had no faith that after-the-fact handwashing, or the Purell in my purse were going to do me any good with this one.)
Turds In The Punchbowl. Mr. Nasty Experience and his GF sat down on my right. He never got over the fact that they were placed in two-star seats.
The runners brought the prickly pair’s order to the wrong cover (ours), but reversed gears before it hit the tablecloth. He complained the entire meal about that fact, didn’t touch his food, and expected $$ to be taken off the bill.
To recap: they arrived after us, ordered after us, and received their meals before us.
Were we pissed? Hell, No!
“Waiter!” “Another potato-vodka blue-cheese-stuffed-olive martini, please!”
Oh, Baby! Servers quickly turned Mr. Nasty’s 2-top into a 4 and dragged a high chair over.
Granted, Martini #2 was a rousing success, but I have one cardinal rule: never be seated next to an infant. That’s one thing that can’t be resolved by even the finest, designer medication – if I even had a scrip, that is.
We exited just as the little pooper was slid into place, whilst toys and Cheerios were spread out before it with lightning speed.
There was every chance that the party would have food in front of them before Junior popped a meltdown, but that’s one inevitability that I was not waiting around to witness.
We chugged our drinks and left on a high note.
