I was in a German restaurant perched on a mountainside near Lake Tahoe getting pissed off. I don’t know what it was, but I got a vibe from the staff that we weren’t wanted. Judging from the crappy table we got and the Rolexes dangling from several of the patrons’ wrists, I figured the restaurant was a haunt for wealthy Teutonic habitués and we didn’t make the cut. Also, my lager took forever to arrive. Then when our waiter, a way too cool for school hipster finally arrived with his dupe pad, we ordered dinner with a “mini” pretzel and Brussel sprouts to start. But when our appetizers arrived the pretzel was the size of Bavaria. “This is a mini?” I asked.

“No,” the waiter said, “It’s the regular pretzel.” 

“I ordered a mini one.” 

“No,” the waiter said, a shade too aggressively. “You just said you wanted a pretzel.” 

Michael Caine had a little acting trick. When he wanted to exude power or menace, he’d look at the floor and then, without moving his head, slowly bring his eyes up. Doing the same thing, I locked eyes with the waiter and unleashed my thousand yard stare – the one where my gaze goes through your eyes like a bullet, blows out the back of your head, and then zips onwards into infinity.  The waiter rocked back on his heels like he’d been punched. 

“No,” I said, slowly.  “I distinctly remember asking for a small one.” Flummoxed, and probably not used to have his coolness perturbed, he said. “Okay, I’ll just charge you for a small one.” 

“I appreciate that, sir,” I said. “Thank you.” Sir Michael would have been proud of me. 

“You said you wanted the small pretzel,” my wife said, as the waiter walked away. “I heard you.” 

“No biggie,” I said, smearing mustard on my oversized twist of carbs, Then, with a chuckle, I realized I was a lot like our waiter twenty-five years ago, but was now firmly ensconced in that middle aged cadre of grumps who can’t stand being ripped off. How the tables have turned and burned. Hypocrisy? Perhaps, but when we finished our admittedly excellent meal, I tipped the waiter 20% – in cash. I guess I haven’t gone completely over to the dark side. 

After a scenic sunset drive through mountains overlooking Lake Tahoe, we returned to our resort by the lake, looking forward to toasting some hotel supplied smore’s by their de riguier California fire pit. But, when I went to the front desk to pick up the smore’s “kit” the clerk said they were all out. 

“Didn’t they tack on a resort fee to our bill?” I asked my wife as we walked away. 

“Indeed, they did.” 

“And they can’t manage a few extra graham crackers and marshmallows?”

“What can I say?” Annie said. “They can’t even get coffee right.”

The morning after our first night, I went down to the hotel’s lobby to score some “free” coffee. but the urn was empty. “Restaurant opens at eight,” the gruff night clerk told me. “That’s when the coffee comes out.” Looking at my watch, I saw I was in for a two hour wait. Having been in food service, I knew brewing an urn of coffee was a simple enough task, but that seemed beyond this lazy ass clerk’s skill set. Since I had nothing to do, and my wife and daughter were still asleep, I plopped down on a couch and read a book on my phone, watching as patron after sleepy patron walked up to the urn, only to come up empty. It was like watching addicts discovering their eight ball had seen switched out with baby powder. 

“The guy said eight o’clock,” I told one well-heeled looking oldster. 

“But I need it now,” the man, in the grip of caffeine withdrawal, said. “What the hell?” 

This was only one of the many annoyances I encountered during our hotel stay. In addition to the paucity of smore’s:

1. Our shower door had an inch gap from the floor, allowing water to flood the bathroom, forcing us to use our towels to sop up the mess. 
2. The front desk didn’t put us on the housekeeping list, so the maid didn’t come to make up our room and give us new towels.
3. The guest laundry machine was dirty, and the folding table covered in matted hair.
4. They ran out of towels by the pool. 
5. The bar ran out of Bloody Mary mix and several of the beers on offer were “unavailable.”  
6.  We were awoken at 3:00 am by the sound of a broken sprinkler spewing hundreds of gallons of water outside our window. (And the gruff night manager took his sweet ass time shutting it off)  
7. They were always running out of creamers and sugar by the lobby coffee station. (When they had coffee.) 
8. The front desk was understaffed, leading to long lines. 
9. If you wanted some shade by the pool, you had to pay extra for an umbrella. 
10. The hotel was supposed to be “elegant” but, looking closely, you could see maintenance was an afterthought. 

“Daddy?” my daughter said, disappointed there were no smore’s, “Can we get some ice cream instead?” 

“Sure,” I said. “I think I saw a gelato place on the other side of the street.” 

The gelato place had a long line and, as we waited our turn, one of the workers knelt on the floor to refill a waist high fridge with treats. Noticing it’s door kept slamming on her shoulder, I held it open for her. 

“You don’t have to do that, sir,” she said. 

“My pleasure,” I said, letting several patrons go ahead of us. Then when it was our turn to order, the very same lady rang us up. “I gave you ten percent off,” she said, smiling. “Because you were so nice.” 

“That’s very sweet,” I said. “Thank you.” Then I slipped a nice tip into her jar, which elicited another smile.

The next morning, I went down to the lobby and, yet again, there was no coffee. “I put it on to brew, sir,” the morning clerk, a young girl probably still in high school, said. “It’ll be ready in five minutes.” But, because she was the only person at the desk and dealing with a long line of people checking out, her estimate was hopelessly optimistic. Cue the parade of frustrated addicts again. One young woman even slammed her hand on the coffee counter in frustration. Time to be a hero. 

Walking into the restaurant kitchen, I found the urn and, to the shock of the cook, lifted it up by the handles and brought it into the lobby. “Buddy,” I said to a guy sadly holding a paper cup, “Help me out and take the old urn off the table.” Then I placed the hot fresh coffee on the counter. “It’s about time,” the man grunted. 

“And I don’t even work here,” I said. Then I brought the empty urn back into the kitchen, got two cups of coffee, gave the desk clerk a salute, and went back to my room. 

“They had coffee this time?” my wife said. I told her about my heroism.

“They must’ve loved you.” 

“This place is on its last legs,’ I said. “All the signs are there.” 

When it came time to check out the next morning my wife said, “Do not leave the maid a tip. She didn’t clean our room.” 

“Okay, honey,” I said. Then, under pretense of checking for items we might’ve left behind, I went back to the room and put a fiver on a pillow. On the way to Reno airport, my wife said. “You left the maid a tip, didn’t you?” 

“It wasn’t the maid’s fault the front desk didn’t put us on the housekeeping schedule.” 

“I forgot who I married.” 

Time has indeed turned the tables but, despite becoming of one those middle-aged patrons I once despised, I haven’t forgotten where I came from.