While at CYBR.SEC.CON last week, Jessvin, a professional acquaintance–very soon to be a friend–took me out for dinner. Neither of us knew the Houston area very well, so he discovered a nearby steakhouse (Pappas), and reserved a table for us. He even had the forethought to tell them about my dietary restrictions (although I think he missed one, but we cleared that up, but that’s a bit later in the story).
If you recognize the title of this newsletter from 1% Leadership, you may think you know what’s coming. Directionally, you’ll be accurate, but I doubt you’ll have the magnitude correct.
When we arrived at the restaurant, the hostess greeted us. We confirmed that my dietary restrictions were in the reservation, and corrected the one missing one. For the record, the restriction is “no egg, no dairy, no pork, no shellfish.” It seems to be one that confuses people a lot, but I was impressed that she already had it (I suspect OpenTable had something to do with that). I also asked for a quieter table, as there were the sounds of a loud piano wafting from the bar area. She directed us to wait in front of the steak display while we waited to be escorted to our table.
That’s right, a steak display. Like a lobster tank, but for cuts of meat. Pappas is one of those restaurants: white tablecloths, shiny crystal and glass, everyone in dapper outfits. It was in the high nineties outside, and I felt underdressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt, even though most of the patrons were similarly dressed. The sort of restaurant where you expect everything to be just right, from the waiter sweeping your table with a crumber between courses to a sommelier who opens your wine for you.
We ordered a delightful bottle of Chateau Montelena, the 2012 Estate Zinfandel. If you don’t know the story of Montelena, it’s the Napa vineyard that took The Judgement of Paris in 1976, winning a blind tasting against French vineyards, who all expected to handily be the best. There’s a mild foreshadowing there of what was about to come; but if you haven’t yet watched Bottle Shock, I highly recommend it.
Our waiter came to take our order. He had an apprentice server following him around, and he began by inviting us to try an appetizer. The menu only had names of items, without ingredient descriptions, but in this case, it was pretty clear. He began, “I understand you have allergies, but can I interest you in the deviled eggs, crabcakes, bacon wrapped scallops, or shrimp?”
Jessvin and I looked at each other. Both of us did the same calculus. Egg, shellfish, and pork, right in the names. There was probably butter in some of those, but at least it wasn’t a headline ingredient. We … declined an appetizer. Jessvin ordered a caesar salad, a filet, and the asparagus side dish. The waiter redeemed himself, noting that the fondue could be served on the side so that I could have some. Aha! A moment of redemption! Perhaps the offer of food I couldn’t eat was just a momentary slip!
I ordered the steakhouse salad (checking that allergens would be removed), a ribeye (specifying it shouldn’t have butter), and roasted mushrooms. The waiter said he’d make sure the cheese was removed from the salad (but not the beets), and our waiter pair wandered off. A few minutes later, yet another person wandered over to our table (in addition to our waiter pair, we had someone who only poured us water, the sommelier who’d decanted our wine, and a separate wine server just to refresh our glasses). She identified herself as the manager, and asked:
“I see you have a dairy allergy, and you ordered the roasted mushrooms. It’s finished in butter and cooked in butter. Will that be all right?”
Again, Jessvin and I looked at each other, mostly in shock (and I think this is the point we became friends). Was there any answer other than “No”? Okay, I could insert several pieces of profanity before the “No,” but I couldn’t see how I was supposed to respond any way other than to decline the mushrooms.
Then my salad came out. It was a dim restaurant, but I could see the lettuce, thinly sliced onions, and apples. No cheese! As we chatted, and I ate the salad, I uncovered the golden beets.
And then I uncovered the bacon. Not “little crumbles of bacon,” but giant half-slices of bacon. Apparently that’s a staple of a steakhouse salad, according to a chef I told this story to. But I’m not sure how a manager caught the dairy allergy on the mushrooms but not the pork on the salad.
I shoved the plate away. Jessvin looked aghast. I can’t imagine a better reaction than his. He offered to storm out with me, or whatever I wanted. He put the ball in my court, but also noted he’d be happy to throw a temper tantrum for me if I wanted.
The wine waiter happened to walk over, and asked what the problem was. We told him, and he asked if I wanted the plate taken away (yes). A few moments later, yet another human came over.
He also introduced himself as the manager. “Who is your boss?,” posed Jessvin. He told us his boss wasn’t here that night, and that he was the senior person in the building. He apologized profusely, and then proceeded to say something that I’m sure sounded good in a workshop, but was absolutely the wrong thing to say at that moment.
“This is a trust-building moment for us.”
No, it wasn’t. It might have been an opportunity for good customer service, but the most trust that the restaurant could build was that, when they knew they were being carefully watched, and they were carefully watching themselves, they could at least do the bare minimum from a safety perspective.
Ironically, I had a copy of 1% Leadership with me. I signed it and gave it to him, and suggested that he read Chapter 53–which included a story about a restaurant that merely executed on someone else’s failure–in hopes that he’d see ideas for how to try to redeem the moment.
A few minutes after that, our steaks and the asparagus came out. I’d predicted to Jessvin that either the manager would come back out and attest that he’d personally verified that the cook who’d fired the steaks had not used butter, or that the executive chef would come out and personally apologize, and confirm that there was no dairy on my steak.
Alas, I would be disappointed yet again. Our waiter pair came back out, and asked if we’d cut open the steaks to confirm that the steaks were appropriately cooked (they were). After they wandered off again, I apologized to Jessvin for what I was about to do, as I fondled the steak to confirm that it wasn’t covered in butter).
The steaks were delicious, as was the asparagus (which Jessvin had to do without his promised fondue on the side, as that never arrived). We had bonded over the shared experience–we weren’t quite sure how it could have been more ludicrous–when our waiter pair came back to offer us dessert. The senior waiter even let his apprentice offer dessert choices to me.
At this point, I can’t recall the two choices she got through, although both were naught but allergens, before the senior waiter then cut her off. He noted that I could have a selection of sorbet or berries. We did decline dessert, although we enjoyed a lovely glass of port before paying our check (we were comped the food, but not the alcohol), and heading home.
What went wrong?
It’s kind of tempting to say “everything” as an answer, given how many times an error happened, but that’s a facile, unhelpful answer. The biggest answer is that the restaurant had the trappings of a restaurant that understood allergens, which lulled me into a false sense of security, when in reality they demonstrated that they didn’t know how to deal with allergies at all.
Perhaps they’re fine with a guest with one dietary restriction, but I have four, and one of them is … unusual.
Almost every restaurant in America deals with dietary restrictions better than this. Chipotle shifts from an assembly line to a single person prepping your food from untouched ingredient trays. Most servers, from rural diners to high-class establishments will walk through the menu telling you what you can and can’t eat, and how modifications might happen. Some will even bring you a special version of the menu Many will have a manager come out after you order to confirm exactly how your ingredients will be dealt with.
But here’s what they all have in common: when there is failure, everything stops. Everyone pivots onto correcting the failure, and watching closely until there is a return to normal. That’s the key ingredient that Pappas was missing that night. They didn’t treat this failure as an incident, or even as an opportunity to deliver customer service. Instead, we got some formulaic pablum, and then treated as if nothing unusual had happened.