REMEMBER HOW MUCH FUN THAT WASN'T??

     Restaurant week. Two words that send shivers down the spines of even the most seasoned restaurant veterans. For one tedious, tear-filled week every year, a group of restaurants on Long Island gets together and collectively decide to offer the adoring public a specially discounted menu. This most magical time of year always happens to fall in November, turning a week of Autumn, the North's most colorful and vibrant season, into a virtual Hell on Earth for servers and chefs alike.  The inferno originates months prior with the placement of advertisements in and on anything withstanding their toxic touch, the dispersement of menus to any individual with half a pulse who appears to have ever once taken any interest in food, and kitchen preparations that are in full effect trying to come up with new menu ideas never before seen, for prices only ever seen at local fast food drive-thrus. Doors open that first Sunday night, and chaos commences. Seven straight days of, "Wait, can we use this coupon too?," "We'll just have water with no ice, but we could use some lemon.," and "Is there any way I can substitute this side of fries for a lobster tail, even though I see it says I can't in bold print." Table by table they slither in and stumble out, people who not only expect the red carpet to be rolled out in front of their every step, but for it to be done while they're fed grapes and fanned by muscular busboys. The same people who will not ever be seen again, or if so, guaranteed not until this same time next year. The public's constant questioning, quizzes and complaints exhaust even the most experienced servers, until delusions and delerium take over, and one by one they are each found either chain smoking outside in the freezing cold mumbling to themselves in an elderly British accent, kneeled on the ground in the corner by the taps covered in soda and laughing hysterically for no reason or locked in the bathroom sobbing with particles of toliet paper stuck to their face because some lady thinks her fish was salted just to spite her. Chefs argue over whether or not a burger's bun is required, wonder why the words no substitutions still provoke constant questions and demands, and puzzle at the lack of positive feedback from a menu designed to draw a certain "kind of" crowd concerned more about their light budgets than boosting professional egos. What good comes from all of this?? There are no answers, only second degree burns, emotional scars and horror stories of a week, once a year, that comes way too quickly and lasts way too long. Bon Appetit.