Bad Press For Piccolo Mondo

Since Snowie and I got together, I’ve successfully weaned her of her pre-me habit of eating out and having what I consider as desperate-times snackfoods as a meal. We now eat in most nights of the week, damn well and for half the cost.

The unfortunate thing is, all that in-eating has caused me to lose touch with reality. I find myself grumbling that for how much it’d cost me to eat out with friends, I’d be able to feed us all at home. With bigger portions! And no tax!

I’ve got to say that it’s kinda unbecoming of me to gripe about the cost of eating out, given my and Snowie’s considerable combined incomes. I am also a firm believer in getting what you pay for, hence I have no qualms about splurging, provided the price matches the quality.

Nevertheless there I’ll be, having a heart seizure whilst scanning an unfamiliar menu.

So as not to lose whatever remains of our – ok, MY – grip on reality, we’ve been making it a point to eat at proper restaurants (i.e. places in which the total bill exceeds RM40. Yes, I am THAT kiamsiap.) at least once a fortnight.

Two nights ago, during one such reality-touching exercise at the Midvalley Megamall branch of Piccolo Mondo, I had the worst calamari in my entire squid-eating life. So that’s what chewing rubber feels like. The ravioli wasn't too far off the suck mark either; felt like it’d popped out of the freezer a couple of minutes prior to serving. Given the quality of the mains, we promptly cancelled the panna cotta we'd pre-ordered.

Feeling most bohkamguan that I’d have to pay for the crap I’d nevertheless forced down (kiasu mah), I decided to complain – my forte!

Noting that there was a tableful of customers within earshot of me should I voice my complaint at my table, I went over to a manager-looking person at the payment counter and asked for my bill. I then told him, with no words minced, what I thought about the food.

Then he really pissed me off. He abruptly interrupted me mid-complaint, mumbling something about bringing the bill over. In a fit of self-righteous arrogance, I told him that if I could have the courtesy and consideration not to make a scene at my table in front of the other customers and come over to him instead, he should damn well listen to my complaint in all its hissy glory.

He mumbled some more about the bill, avoided eye contact and fled.

An eternity later, he scuttled over and announced that we were getting an on-the-house tiramisu. I told him not to bother, I want my bill now.

On another planet, life forms evolved. The bill still didn’t come.

Suddenly, the unwanted tiramisu was presented, in all its unappreciated glory (I was sorely tempted to eat the chocolate stick though). Would it not have been more sensible to give me a panna cotta instead, given its obvious choice as my pre-ordered and subsequently cancelled dessert? Anyway.

Already aggravated by his earlier fobbing-off and the fact that alien life forms had time to evolve as we spoke, I told him thanks, but no thanks, that’s so not the point. I WANT MY BILL. NOW.

Undaunted, he sent over a man in a ridiculously pointy hat. The cook, no doubt.

I told him that the food sucked, thank you for your tiramisu, but that's not the point. The calamari was really, really amateurish. Weakly, he replied -

”Oh, I think maybe it was overcooked”.

Ya think?

Don’t these people have brains? My meal had turned out completely dismal, why would you think that giving me more of your handiwork would make me change my mind? And what if I were allergic to tiramisu? Did I ask for a discount? No. Did I ask for a fresh dish? No. I did however, ask for the bill.

Another eternity passed. The tiramisu sobbed disconsolately all over the plate, scarred for life. The life forms on that other planet invented space-crafts. Finally, the bill arrived.

It was the wrong bill.

It’s a miracle, given my genetic predisposition towards erupting into an unstoppable raging demon tyrant at the slightest provocation, that I hadn’t started screaming by that point.

We finally got the correct bill, delivered by a lowly minion this time - the manager appeared to be in hiding.

The advanced life forms stood poised to attack, hovering just outside our solar system. The spaceship slowly turned back. It wasn't worth being taken to our leader.

Cavemen spent hours trying to decipher the wonders of my credit card before I finally got it back. The manager never showed his face.

The innocent victim of this story, the poor rejected tiramisu, its self-confidence forever shattered, sat untouched in a pool of its embarrassment as we left the restaurant.

I’d like to think that as much as I would have loved to throw the most massive hissy fit ever, that lonely tiramisu sitting on the empty table made a more effective point.

Or should I have written to the holder of the Piccolo Mondo franchise? Or called the media? Or lodged a police report? Heh. Ignore this very event-specific last paragraph.