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Okay, there have definitely been worse… I’ve actually had worse. But this is the most notable in awhile. People may think I’m a real jerk unless they’re food-people. It’s a risk I’m willing to take if it means preventing others from having to deal with this.

Claire and I went to Kerbey Lane with Miranda and her daughter when we got into Austin. (Of course it happened at Kerbey Lane!)

I ordered a Berkley Salad, which I’ve been ordering since I started eating there seven years ago. The description: Vine-ripened tomatoes, seasonal fresh fruit, avocado, purple onions, mushrooms, marinated garbanzo beans and mozzarella on a bed of crisp mixed greens. So the salad comes… drenched in oil. Apparently, that’s what “marinated” means now. I’ve noticed they’ve been playing with their menu a little more in the last few years, but this was nuts.

I told the waitress my salad was drenched in oil. She said it was because of the garbanzo beans. I concurred, but my salad was still drenched in oil and I did not want it to be. I kind of laughed at the absurdity of oiling a perfectly healthy salad, for which I had requested dressing on the side. Why would you serve a salad with dressing at all if you were going to add four tablespoons of oil to it initially? She said that’s how it comes. Well, I wanted it to go.

She took the salad back and got a manager. Fixing it / Making another salad = Too difficult. Gotta call management. The manager comes over… just a hair older than me, retired club-kid-looking. He brings the salad with him. He explains the process of marination and how that transfers to the rest of the salad. I say once again that I do not want to eat an oily salad. This particular desire must make me very stupid because he proceeded to explain this transfer of matter again. But he rushed through his speech, realizing he was being a complete dick, and assured me that he’d fix it. He went back and put the beans in a bowl and served me a new salad.

The waitress comes back. “Did he explain to you how we do the salad?” and continued with the redundant talking.

“I think we’re done talking about it and would just like to eat,” said Claire.

Poor waitress’s ego must have sunk to the floor. It was a little mean. But I was also very tired of listening to their rationale for serving something so fundamentally wrong.

I wanted to ask them, “Do you eat here? Have you eaten a salad like this? Did it taste good? How did you feel afterward?”

It was a ridiculous menu move, and probably none of their faults. But the amount of time they spent trying to justify it as if I should change my mind and like it was ridiculous. I know I can be kind of a food-snob, and I often leave it at the door if I’m paying less than $20 a plate, but this was just fucking absurd. It’s like serving a meatball sub covered in mustard or something. Maybe someone out there likes it, but not enough to serve it that way by default and expect no one to say something.

Therefore, today’s “What the FUCK?” was brought to you by Kat Taylor, her sister, and the letter R.