3636 McKinney, Suite 190
Last night my ladyfriend and I decided on a pizza dinner at Grimaldi's in the
Just to be clear, though, Grimaldi's is not really the kind of place you go with your bros unless A) you're a metrosexual who actually lives in the West Village or B) you're doing some tag team, double-date romancing of the ladies. They don't serve pizza by the slice for one, and the biggest pie they make is only 18 inches wide.
I will say, however, that Grimaldi's has some of the best pizza in town--a simple pepperoni pie is damn near a revelation here. We've also never had any issues with the service. Until last night, that is.
Our waitress wasn't exactly stiff or untrained. She didn't give us attitude, or mix up an order (save including onions on the ladyfriend's salad after she specifically asked for their exclusion, something easily dealt with) or anything of that sort.
Honestly, she just freaked me out.
First she sauntered up to the table and stared off into space for 10 or 15 seconds before asking if we'd like a beverage, as if she'd stepped straight out of Children of the Corn to enter the service industry. When the pizza came, she opened up in an extraordinarily blank monotone: "You guys like your pizza?"
Normal, enthusiastic couple: "It's delicious, thanks!"
Waitress in abrupt monotone, half staring at floor: "good."
I didn't need her to do a cheer or anything, but a little down-home
My favorite moment of the evening came toward the end, however, and went a little like this: "You guys have a great afternoon [It was nearly ]...(mumble, mumble)...and I hope you get home safe." Sure, the concern for our well being was nice, but something in her tone gave me the distinct impression I should check my brake lines for damage, icy roads or not.
Honestly, I hate to bag on this chick. I was once a mediocre waiter myself*. Plus I'd kind of like to sit in her section again, just to make sure I wasn't high the first time.
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* To anyone that ate at the Old Town Pluckers in the summer of '03, I am truly sorry. Except you, cop that I spilled ranch on and little kid that questioned my manhood for not recommending "Fire in the Hole" wings. You can both fuck right off.
Dude Factor (Crazy Chick Edition): 6, or "Anne Heche" on a scale of 1 ("Ally Sheedy") to 10 ("Courtney Love")