Bucky raises an important and difficult question in his guest post today, and my only concern with it is why he thought he wouldn't eventually be writing about every food-related event in his life for Dining@Large.
Wow. This is one ugly photo. He must have been taking lessons from jl.
Here's Bucky. EL
So, we were driving down the coast last week, on our spur-of-the-moment vacation, and Mrs. Bucky spied a little café that looked out over the beach in Newport, Oregon.
“Why don’t we stop for lunch,” she instructed. ...
I should point out that when we take a driving trip, she is the Navigator while I’m just the Captain. Since we were in Oregon, I started calling her Sacajawea. After about the 50th time, she started getting irritated which, of course, made me do it another 50 or so times. But I digress.
We went into this charming little place and perused the menu. I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, because I knew it would be made with Tillamook cheese. I don’t remember what Mrs. Bucky ordered because, at the time, I didn’t think I would eventually be writing about it, so I didn’t take any notes. And my memory is beginning to fail me at times.
Where was I? Oh yeah…
When the waitress brought our lunches, I did what I always do — always have done, since I was a little kid and old enough to manage myself at meal times. I salted my grilled cheese sandwich.
Whoa. The waitress practically tore my arm off, grabbing that salt shaker out of my hand. “What are you doing?” she…uh…well, “asked” is too mild of a verb, while “screamed” overstates it. And then — AND THEN — she said, “You don’t need that salt.”
Sacajawea just sat there with that smirky look on her face — yes, that one — because she has been telling me that same thing since the very first time she ever saw me eat a grilled cheese sandwich many, many years ago.
What I want to know is, should a server ever advise a customer on condiments?
(What I don’t care to know is what you think about salting a grilled cheese sandwich. Yes, I am aware that the amount of salt I eat will likely shorten my life by a couple of years. But this country is going to hell in a hand basket, and I figure I wouldn’t have enjoyed those couple of years all that much anyway.)
(Photo by Uncle Larry, who apologizes that it’s fuzzy. He was sitting in the cramped back seat; and Bucky wouldn’t stop on the busy highway so he could get out and take a good, clear picture of the Tillamook Cheese factory in Tillamook, Oregon.)