The waitress, for the eighty seconds she was willing to devote to us, was very pleasant. After our initial introduction we caught fleeting glimpses of her plying her trade on other tables. At some point she vanished and we were left to assume she’d stepped aboard a steamship to start a new life in Morocco.
During the course of the waitress’s slow-motion disappearance, the hostess assumed the role of backup waitress. She did well but not perfectly. I had to track her down when it was apparent that, like some waitresses, our drink order had vanished.
Speaking of drinks – $16 for a Bloody Mary is remarkably steep, Tito’s vodka or not.
We opted for the three-course Mother’s Day prix fixe menu and then proceeded to wait for it for a long time. I understand the farm-to-table concept, but hadn’t realized that the food might literally be coming from a farm to your table.
The food was okay. The garlic soup was nice. The avocado toast was decent but I’ve had better. The burger was a little on the bland side. The salmon Benedict was good. The hanger steak was particularly tender for hanger steak.
And then it was time for dessert. Or was it?
As mentioned, our waitress had gone from table to farm. Or Canada. At some point we flagged down the nice hostess-waitress and ordered dessert.
Were this a screenplay, this would be where I put the montage of my family waiting for said dessert. There would be shots of us talking, looking around, the kids kicking each other under the table, the taking of Mother’s Day photos, chatting with our neighbors and generally looking like people wondering where the hell dessert was.
At some point a waiter came to tell us that our desserts would be out soon. Time is relative. One man’s ‘soon’ is another man’s ‘long time.’ Two hours and ten minutes after we’d been seated, the desserts made it to the table. I took the opportunity to ask for the check, lest our waiter decide that he too was going to retire from his career during the course of our patronage.
I left a decent tip only because I hoped it would reach the deserving hostess-waitress and our new waiter friend. If it didn’t, then there’s no justice in the world.
From Brian’s review of Blenheim on Yelp.