The Elephant and Butter

The Elephant and Butter sent something back to the restaurant kitchen. Scallops. My threshold for salt is generally very high, but these scallops were so brackish they pickled and numbed my tongue. And they smelled amiss. I was not alone in this opinion. Churchie, the Herodetus of seafood, agreed. This is a man who has pulled dinners out of the Atlantic with his own sure hands. Churchie does not err in matters of the sea. They were completely objectionable scallops. It was the first time in my life I had I sent food back to the kitchen.

And yet, at first I hesitated to say anything. We both did. Controversy ensued. Were we being overly deferential? Were we afraid of conflict? Did we fear how we would behave once the conflict was broached with a waiter? Would we change the tenor of the birthday banquet by calling attention to inadequacy at the restaurant? Because of the size of our party, I found myself rationalizing how the scallops came to be so shitty. Cooking different dishes for over 10 people, all timed to arrive at once, is not easy. I also tried to discern what my true motivation would be for sending the food back. To get my money back? To send signal that shitty scallops can not be passed with impunity? To help the chef understand and in the future avoid the error? 

It seemed not only like an ethical quandary, but a psychological one. What personal need would be fulfilled by sending the dish back? Would I feel less taken advantage of? Would my assertiveness bolster my opinion of myself? Would my ability to engage in fair-minded, trusting conflict resolution bolster my opinion of myself? None of these motivations appealed to me. The serenity of my self shouldn't hinge, I thought, on my handling of three bad scallops. 

Practicality did not matter much, either. By the time the un-good scallops had arrived I was no longer hungry, and their cost wasn't much of a factor because in restaurants my regard for money is diminished. Still, the idea had been introduced. I could send them back or not. The decision became embossed.

In the end, I succumbed to a psychological need, but none of the ones mentioned above -- the need to show that I was capable of sending bad scallops back to the kitchen, whether I really felt it was a worthy action or not. I wanted to try it out. So, as the table discussion waged onward, I discretely hailed the waiter and told him that my scallops were extremely salty, but that I didn't want any replacements, or anything, really. I have rode a motorcycle through a typhoon. I have sat at the bedside of dying people I loved. And now I have sent something back to a kitchen.