The wonderful Wonderful Inn

Yes, here comes another restaurant review. But bear with us; there’s a bigger point to be made, bigger than a review of the food fare. Read on.

The first incident

Laura and I have been frequenting a Chinese restaurant here in Greeley for many months now. Its name is “Wonderful Inn,” and from the kitchen comes good-quality Americanized Chinese food.

We do return there time after time because we like the food. I’m fond of the various spicy shrimp dishes; Laura orders Kung Pao Chicken just about every other visit.

But more importantly, we are repeat customers at Wonderful Inn because of the service.

At any one time, there can be as few as two or as many as six waiters on duty. It’s enjoyable just to watch the “team” work. They hustle. They assist one another. They are hard-working, very human, very kindly to their customers and considerate to each other.

One afternoon a corpulent man we’ll call Bozo shows up at our Wonderful Inn. He stands uneasily at the cash desk, fidgeting.

Quickly, one of the waiters approaches and offers to help. Bozo places a to-go order, and the waiter hurries off to the kitchen to get the cooks started.

I can’t help but notice as Bozo carefully inspects his waiting-area environment. He looks critically at various items of art, the displayed bottles of wine, and the wall where the permits and licenses are posted for public view.

Suddenly Bozo becomes agitated and rather insistently motions for the waiter to come over.

Bozo points up to the framed licenses and permits and says, “Your sales tax license has expired. I’m not buying anything here.”

At that, he walks out the front door and disappears up the street. The waiter’s shoulders sag and his chin droops to his chest. Slowly, despondently, he walks to the kitchen to cancel the order.

Bozo sure took the starch out of our busy, energetic, lively waiter, didn’t he? Good for you, Bozo! Ruined somebody’s day! What an unusual skill. Our compliments to you, Bozo, for spreading your rancor all over town.

The second incident

Here comes a fat guy. We’ll call him Jack Slob. Rolling up to the cash desk at Wonderful Inn, he has dressed for the occasion in baggy, silky calf-length shorts, flip-flop rubber sandals, and a stained sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders.

Now I’m no fancy dresser myself, but I can tell a slob when I see one. Jack may simply be wearing the same clothing in which he slept. He comes to Wonderful Inn wearing his pajamas.

He informs the man at the register that he is here to pick up a phoned-in to-go order. The waiter immediately hurries off toward the kitchen to determine the status of this order.

Apparently feeling the need to further instruct the departing waiter, Jack Slob raises his hands, claps loudly twice, and shouts, “CHOP CHOP.”

For the second time at the Wonderful Inn, I have become a witness. I watch as an employee’s shoulders sag and his chin drops to his chest.

The waiter stops in his tracks. He has been brought to an uncustomary standstill. I can see that he is considering, pondering, whether to turn around to address Jack Slob.

After a few seconds the waiter wisely decides against confrontation and resumes his errand into the kitchen. The to-go order is quickly delivered without further gauche behavior from Jack, as far as I can tell.

Why go there?

Now really. Why would I want to patronize a restaurant where people like Jack Slob and Bozo are customers?

Because the food is good and the service is superior. Since the wait staff figured out that Laura and I aren’t members of the Great Unwashed, your usual pajama-wearing public, we get very, very special treatment.

Once early on, I said to one waiter, “We don’t get in a hurry.” Since then, every waiter has always encouraged us to be deliberate in taking our meal.

“Take your time,” they all say, smiling. “Take your time. Enjoy your meal.”

We do enjoy our meal, and the camaraderie.

We apologize on behalf of the thoughtless spoiled-brat jackass white people who try their best to ruin it for us. And thanks to the ever-patient employees at the wonderful Wonderful Inn.

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Mea culpa

Last week, the following paragraph was a part of “The Friday Letter”:

“You see, Steve, Latin isn’t a dead language at all. English, French, Portuguese, Italian, Spanish – all of the so-called Romance Languages – owe their very existence to Latin. So Latin roots live on in these modern languages.”

Gulp. Swallow. Apologize. Pardon me.

For at least the last 50 years, I have held firm to the belief that English was one of the “Romance Languages.”

I was wrong. I am not quite humiliated, but man oh man am I abjectly sorry.

The "Romance Languages," according to our friend Frau Rinard, the expert language teacher, and two of my Webster’s Dictionaries, are:

Portuguese, Spanish, Catalan, Provençal, French, Rhaeto-Romanic, Italian and Romanian.

English is not included. You’d think, with the hundreds and hundreds of English words having their derivation in Latin, that English would be one of the Romance languages.

Not so. English, instructs Mrs. Rinard, is a Germanic language. Germanic? Gulp. Swallow. Apologize. Sorry folks. I stand corrected.

Wonder what else I’ve been wrong about for 50 years?

(The subhead “Mea Culpa” at the beginning of this corrective item is dedicated to Faithful Reader Maureen. “Mea Culpa” is Latin, Maureen. It means “My Fault.”)

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Word of the Week: Belligerent. In Latin, the word “bellum” means war. So if someone is belligerent, he is at war, warlike, or seeking war. Similarly, if someone is bellicose, he is quarrelsome or hostile. Like how I get when I find out I’ve been wrong about something for 50 years.

Next week’s word: Plethora.

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