It’s sad when pretentious Fabio wannabes don’t know their jobs…

Do not read this if you don’t want to read a lot of swearing and ill will. I’m pissed the fuck off.

Don’t mind me. I’m about to cut loose with a scathing review, thanks to a terrible experience we had here tonight in Leipzig. I wasn’t going to write in this blog today, but a flaxen haired pretty boy at an “Irish pub” has forced my hand. So here goes…

If you’ve been reading my blogs, you may or may not have noticed some things. I don’t suffer fools or much bullshit, for one thing. For another thing, I tend to be forgiving, particularly of people in the service industry. I used to wait tables and bartend myself, so I know how it is. Bill and I are really not hard to please. Give us basic respect and we’ll return the favor, often in spades.

Well, tonight we had quite the shitty experience at an Irish pub. I’m actually sad to write this, because we went there for lunch on Thursday and had a good time. The food was okay, and the service was friendly and decent. Tonight, after having had a three hour nap caused by antihistamines I was forced to take after something bit me on the leg, we decided to go back to this pub. There are lots of other restaurants in Leipzig. There was no reason to go back to this one; other than the fact that we’d had an okay first experience; it was close to our hotel; and I saw something else on the menu I wanted to try.

When we approached the pub, we could see that it was busy. It was much busier than it was on Thursday. I actually hesitated slightly. I generally dislike visiting places when they’re super busy, but we could see they had some empty tables outside. We almost sat down out there, but then I noticed the darkening skies and, since it looked like it might rain, decided I’d rather eat inside, away from the flies, buzzing or barfly, uneven tables that rock constantly, and waffle grids imprinted on my thighs. It was also a bit quieter in there, and we could hear the music. So we went inside and noticed one guy eating at the bar and a couple of ladies eating at a table. No one spoke to us, but we figured they were serving inside. There was evidence they were, and no one said or did anything that made us believe to the contrary.

We sat down at a table and waited. And waited. And waited. Guy behind the bar, sporting fabulous Fabio-esque locks, was bullshitting with his friends and slinging drinks. He didn’t so much as say “fuck you” to us. There wasn’t a “hello”, “be right with you”, or “welcome” from this dude. He completely ignored us. We probably should have left right then and there.

I was suddenly reminded of another horrible bar experience we had almost six years ago to the day. We were moving to San Antonio. It was Bill’s birthday. He didn’t have to drive anywhere, so he wanted some nice cocktails in honor of his special day. Well, the fuckwads at the Esquire Tavern let us sit at their fancy, long ass, Teddy Roosevelt era bar and didn’t so much as bat an eye to let us know they’d seen us. We left there very disappointed and drank at the Menger Bar instead, where the much better bartender benefited from a very generous tip.

Still wanting to give Fabio junior the benefit of the doubt, I told Bill that maybe it was like in the UK, where if you’re in a pub, you have to go to the bar to get served. I kind of doubted it, since we’d eaten there two days prior and got served at the table. But this guy behind the bar with the flaming locks was acting like there was no table service. So Bill went to the bar and ordered two beers. From where I was sitting, probably a good twenty feet away, I heard his response…

For future reference, we have table service. I’ll be around in a moment.

This was where Bill should have looked the guy in the face and said, “I see… well, there’s been no evidence of any table service from where we sit. You haven’t said a word to us, nor have you given us menus, or any indication that you’ll take our orders. And if your response to customer confusion due to your lack of service is to tell them off, perhaps it would be better if you drank those beers yourself.”

Again, we should have left when he ignored us after a few minutes, and certainly after he chastised Bill for ordering at the bar. It was utter bullshit. It would be one thing if the guy had been busy, but we sat there and watched him bullshitting with his friends and completely ignoring us. And then, when Bill wonders if he has to go to the bar, the guy has the nerve to yell at him. He didn’t even give us menus, nor did he invite Bill to take them from the stack on his bar.

I could see my sweet natured husband getting more and more peeved. It takes a LOT to piss off Bill. He’s a very easy going, kind natured, empathetic guy. In fact, he’s empathetic to a fault. But shit on him egregiously or one too many times, and you will face the wrath of Bill Bixby as the Incredible Hulk when someone “makes him angry”.

This is Bill…

So Bill went back to the bar to pay for the drinks, a Hefeweizen and a Kilkenny. The Kilkenny had a shitty, wee head on it, so the incompetent barkeep didn’t even do a decent pour. A waitress who had not said a word to us before, asked in a worried voice, “Alles okay?”

I said in a very flat tone of voice, “No. We’re going to leave.” I probably looked really pissed. I was pissed, but not as pissed as Bill was. Folks, let me tell you, pissing off Bill more than me takes some serious doing. He’s much nicer and more patient than I am.

Bill paid for the drinks. We left the glasses on the table, but we probably should have taken them to the bar and said, “It’s obvious we have to do your work for you.” Fabio junior was more interested in his social life than doing his fucking job. I don’t think he was German. He might have been. He had this faux Viking vibe going on.

We then went around the corner to Morrison’s Irish Pub, which was staffed by hardworking, very nice Germans who were very interested in providing good service. They took our orders with smiles and, when they brought us the wrong food, fixed the mistake quickly and cheerfully. They were rewarded with a very generous tip. We probably could and should have made more of a scene at the previous faux Irish pub hellhole… but to be honest, it’s been a long, eventful week… For the most part, it’s been excellent. We got a new car; Bill got a new granddaughter; and we got to hang out in the hotel bar with Mark Knopfler and his band. But it’s time to go home, get some beagle love, and wash my underwear.

As for the inconsiderate bartender at Dhillon’s who couldn’t even be arsed to say “hello, can I help you” to us, I hope he has a terrible night and the wrath of the restaurant gods rains nothing but pissed off, ill-tempered, middle-aged, passive-aggressive people with serious tipping inhibitions and one hundred different special requests on him. I hope they also fart all night and turn his bar into a toxic waste dump, then clog up the toilets with greasy shits made by the heavy Irish food served. Then, I hope when he makes his way home tonight, he steps in a pile of human excrement and spreads it all over his house, then comes down with a nasty stomach virus that makes him vomit and shit all night and stains his sheets and mattress.

And then, I hope he either gets fired, or if it’s his bar, I hope he’s forced to close it. Because… having read TripAdvisor reviews, I can see we aren’t the only ones who have experienced his brand of non service. Jerk. Screw him, and the aardvark he rode in on. He is ruining things for the hardworking staff members who don’t act like total jackasses. Although I doubt it would pain him to know it, you couldn’t pay me to go back to that place, even though our first visit was satisfactory. That’s an awfully risky way to do business, particularly in a town with as many decent restaurants as Leipzig has.

And yes… I realize this post makes me hypocritical, especially in light of yesterday’s plea for more civility. At least I admit it, and I’m venting on this little read blog instead of blowing up someone’s Facebook thread.