SAVANNAH – Paula Deen’s restaurant, Lady & Sons, is located on Congress Street, but that wasn’t our destination for tonight’s dinner. We debated a couple options (there’s an app for that) and decided to cast our lot with Garibaldi’s, a bit further down Congress Street.
Garibaldi’s has a Charleston location too, and the pair are sister restaurants with Anson there, which scores high in my book. We had a small table toward the back of the restaurant and were getting settled in when three older gentlemen (and I use the term loosely) were seated at a 4-top next to us. We guessed they had spent most of the afternoon on the golf course and probably were feeling no pain.
My poached pear salad, a red snapper filet, and risotto were lovely. EMH also gave her meal good marks, but she was distracted by the shenanigans going on at the next table.
My back was to them, but to my left I could glimpse the final member of the group, who had stumbled in late. They made some comments to their waiter about how attractive the hostess was and expressed their interest in seeing her again.
EMH and I were not impressed or amused. They were creepy. OK, full disclosure – sure, she and I had exchanged remarks about our hottie waiter, in fact I think she called dibs, but then we let it go. We didn’t feel the need to scam on the wait staff, loudly and aggressively, to the well-heeled dinner crowd.
EMH gave me a play-by-play of what happened next. Their waiter (not our hottie, thank goodness he was not party to any of this) brought the hostess over so the foursome could express their admiration and call her little pet names, and the men proceeded to get drunker. At one point The Latecomer lit a cigarette at the dinner table, in defiance of widely recognized 20th century indoor smoking bans, and EMH looked at me in utter disbelief.
“What is it?” I said.
“He is smoking,” she said. “He can barely sit up straight, and he’s smoking.”
I thought I smelled something, but I thought another patron or staff person was carrying the scent of a recent outdoor cigarette. EMH shared her observation with their server, who quietly and professionally put a stop to it.
Things went downhill from there. EMH reported that The Latecomer was weaving and incoherent. About two minutes later, his head was about an inch from my shoes. He had slumped out of his chair and landed on the floor between our two tables. While I have dreamed of men falling at my feet, this definitely was not what I had in mind.
The waiters sprang into action, helping The Latecomer back to his seat, while the golf buddies sat idly by. The entire restaurant was watching and I was beyond embarrassed. Finally, the group left so EMH and I could enjoy our (fabulous) dessert in peace.
The staff started to clear the adjacent table, and I commented to them that I hope they got a very big tip, since they had certainly earned it. “Thirty [percent] would not be enough,” I snarked.
Their waiter explained that he would view the check once he was outside the dining room, so that no one could see his expression, then he went into the back.
A few minutes later he walked past me and never broke stride as he stage-whispered, “Nineteen.”
Georgia Confidential 