Obviously, going to print with piddly retail squabbles is the stuff of hacks. But I'm hacky enough, and still stunned enough by the upselling tactics, that I just gotta share.
I’ve previously noted that some power people here at Defector have occasionally suggested I try to write regularly about food, because they think I’m a weirdo about eating, and most mundane things. I’ve always begged off, mostly because a column is work, but also because I’m the most easily pleased eater of all time. I’d have to call my column "Portions" because I would rate every eatery based on how much food was piled on my plate. (This post could also be Exhibit A of why putting me on the food desk is a dumbass idea.)
But I’m also the cheapest mofo who ever lived, so were there such a column, a Portions ethos would be: “It ain’t the deal you get, it’s the deal you think you get.” And making you feel like you got your money’s worth is not a science, it’s an art. My lunch last week was artless as hell. And relentless. Death by a thousand gouges.
I got lunch with my friend Meg at a coffee shop on 14th Street NW, several blocks from my house. Meg ordered eggs and toast. She asked if she could have the eggs poached. Sure, said our server. The menu said the plate came with hash browns. Meg asked if she could substitute fruit. Yup, said our server. I ordered the house burger, because it was cheaper than other sandwiches and I like everything. So when the server asked what did I want on it, lettuce and tomato? “Everything!” I said. OK, said our server.
Lunch was great. Again, I love everything. My burger looked so fab that I took a picture of it. And it tasted as good as it looked! Burp! You can’t screw up poached eggs and fruit, so Meg got what she wanted. We’d been going to this same coffeehouse for more than two decades and always loved it. But it had been a while for us, and it was great to catch up and see that our old place still had the same bohemian atmosphere that brought us there back in the day. (Because of the stored goodwill, the name of the joint will not appear in this piece.)
Then the bill came. And what a cornucopia of microtransgressions it was! Here’s the check:
Turns out “Eggs Any Style” really means: “Any style except how Meg wants ‘em!” A dollar more for poaching? Did the price of boiled water go up since the Iran invasion? Eight dollars for subbing fruit for hash browns, with no warning from the server? Another 50-cent upcharge for cheese and 75 cents for onions, neither of which I had asked for, feels almost quaint compared to the rest of the shakedown. A 20 percent tip was added to the bill, because if you’re going to fleece this much, of course you gotta also mandate the tip.
“Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?” Johnny Rotten famously said as he walked offstage at the final concert for the real Sex Pistols. Johnny, I do get that feeling. A whole lot. Way too much, even. I expect to be cheated every time I get off the couch. It’s no way to live, people! But every now and then, my sad worldview gets validated.
I was buying because it was Meg’s birthday, and paid the check without looking at anything but the bottom line. But Meg asked how much, and when I told her, she looked shocked and asked to see the itemized bill, so I looked at it and was awed by the particulars. Meg called the server over to get a rundown. Everything is extra? She asked. Yup, said the server. “We’re never coming here again,” Meg said after the server walked away.
I see her point. This place is dead to us. But, dammit: My burger really was great.
