For me, eating fish and chips is like eating a great burger — if I’m going to go for it, I want it to be the best deep fried fish and chips I’ve ever eaten in my life, otherwise, to paraphrase Mr. T: I pity the fool who disappoints.
Recently, my husband and I went on a date to try the fish and chips at a local restaurant for this month’s column. With five kids, date night takes on biblical proportions, so after securing a babysitter, our expectations were running pretty high.
So I felt conflicted when I ordered fish and chips and they were horrible. I mean, the fish was literally rotten.
Everything was going great, the service was excellent, clean, inviting environment, wide beer selection, wonderful appetizers. They had gotten everything right but that one thing. And serving rotten food is a big deal.
I stewed about it for days afterward.
On the one hand, I never want to write bad stuff about a restaurant. Unless it’s a travesty of justice, why be a jerk? I can always walk away; no harm, no foul. We live in America where there is always another choice.