There wasn't any cream for the coffee, the waiter was a dishevelled loser, and the food was stone cold and tasteless.
Yup!
Instead of sauntering into the Omelet House at the Plaza Hotel, I should have strolled over to McDonald's for a tasty sausage biscuit and a mouth-watering McCafe Moca java.
Or, in the alternative, at least high-tailed it over to ever-popular Dunkin' Doughnuts.
Maybe then - as Jagger would say - I would have gotten some satisfaction (digestive at least)
I obviously fell prey to the ubiquitous signs plastered all over the Freemont Strip in Las Vegas which touted the breakfast offerings at the Omelet House (Plaza Hotel) as something "extra-special".
The truth of the matter?
Breakfast at the off-kilter screwball "Omelet House" was a total wash-out (a cuisine diaster).
From the get-go, it was obvious things were amiss when I first sashayed into the foyer of the eatery (at the Plaza Hotel) which appeared to be frequented mostly by tourists (or the occasional gambler) in town for a day or two without any ties to the local community.
For starters, there was a haphazard line that snaked halfway out the door, that didn't appear to be getting any shorter in spite of the long wait.
Talk about a lack of organization!
After waiting for about five minutes, a waitress with all the personality of a cold fish, approached me with a menu in hand.
After giving me a sidewise glance, the little Asian spitfire motioned for me to follow her to a table, where she sniffed that a waiter would be with me shortly.
Fat chance!
I should have bet on those odds, eh?
About five or six minutes later a befuddled-looking male waiter dashed up slightly out-of-breath to determine if I was interested in a cup of coffee or tea.
After nodding in the affirmative, I opened up the menu and perused it for a moment or two.
When the dough-boy returned with the java, I noticed there wasn't any cream in hand, in spite of the fact the staff neglected to stock each two-seater table in advance of the morning rush.
In response to my request for some "moo" juice, he promised to return with it in a flash.
When a few minutes passed, and he was a no-show, I got up from my seat and strode over to the counter (near the kitchen) and asked a couple of the waitresses if they could oblige me.
They stared at me dumbfounded for a second, then proceeded to ignore me!
A male waiter from another busy section of the restaurant gazing on piped up.
"Creamers are on the table."
"Not on mine," I responded without batting-an-eye.
My original waiter returned, overheard the conversation, and promised to deliver up the coveted cream.
A few minutes later, he stormed into the room with a cardboard box, he was busy trying to pry the top off of.
When he managed to flip open one flap, a dozen or so creamers flew out of the box every which way, but none my direction (go figure!).
He scooped up a couple, dropped them on my table, then asked if he could take my order for breakfast.
As this juncture, I thought it wise to order something simple (and easy) to prepare.
Scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and bacon should be a snap to rustle up, eh?
After I placed the order, I began to busy myself with a bit of paperwork that I needed to catch up on.
When the food did not arrive in about ten minutes, though, I got a bit antsy.
How long does it take to scramble an egg or butter two slices of toast?
When I peered around the room, I couldn't help but notice that a few tourists - who obviously did not speak English - were facilitating hand gestures (!) to get the attention of the on-duty staff.
At this point, a couple of frustrated patrons actually pointed to photographs on the menu to underscore the breakfast orders they were waiting on, but to no avail.
The waiter or waitress - whichever the case might be - would simply nod in the affirmative and dash off exasperated.
I finally motioned to my own waiter - when I caught sight of him - to come over to my table.
From across the room he hollered:
"Yes. One oment, Sir."
True to his word, he did stride over alright, with my bill in his hand!
"I haven't been served my breakfast," I lamented in a slightly annoyed tone of voice.
"You haven't?" he asked increduously.
So, he turned on his worn-down heels, and hurried off to ask the Chef to conjure up something fast, I expect.
When he returned a few minutes later, and slapped the plate down on the table, I quickly sampled a few morsels right away.
Stone cold!
How long had this food been sitting in the kitchen?
It certainly wasn't cooked "fresh" within the past few moments (not even tossed in a microwave!).
I stood, informed the waiter the food was cold, and stormed out.
Yup!
My stomach growled!
I was so upset, I could have wrung that waiter's neck for spoiling my morning, for starters.
Then, I recalled a memorable quote from George Kaufman.
"Epitaph for a dead waiter - God finally caught his eye.”
Yup.
He'll get his just desserts one fine day.
Amen!
