Flashback

"Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it."


I remember hearing this phrase as a teenager and thinking how profound it was. Examples of it seem to permeate society; however, I never really thought of it applying to me and toilet paper until yesterday afternoon.


Our story begins about six years ago around this time. John and I had been married for close to a year. I was lonely for a pet, especially as John was travelling so much for work. A cat was out of the question due to John's allergies. If I wanted a four legged furry friend, I had to get a dog. Enter Puggie. During those early, not house trained days, I would put Puggie in our main floor bathroom before I went off to work. A baby gate kept her confined but she had more space than she did in her crate at night (and my carpets were safe). One day I came home from work to find the bathroom totally wrapped in toilet paper. It seriously looked like a roll exploded in the bathroom. Apparently, Puggie discovered the roll of paper just hanging on the wall and figured it was a good plaything. I will never forget how happy she looked surrounded by Charmin (once I finally located her under the pile). She looked at me as if to say, "Mommy! I had so much fun today." Needless to say, I learned my lesson and kept the toilet paper away from the pup. Unfortunately doing so required explanation when visitors used the facilities.


Well, puppies eventually mellow into dogs (read couch potatoes) and outgrow such mischievousness. I rejoiced when I could finally put the paper back on the roll. No more explanations to bathroom users. A page in my history was written and completed.


Until yesterday.


I was busy getting ready to go to the grocery store. John was working at home so I assumed Angela was playing underfoot in the office. She has an odd fascination for the bright silver zippers on his briefcase. Apparently, this fascination also extends to toilet paper. I was ready to leave and went to collect the little one. As I walked over to the office, I noticed some movement in the bathroom. There was Angela surrounded by toilet paper with a big smile on her face. As I looked at her, my mind flashed back to that pug puppy from six years ago. I had to laugh. It looks like I have re-entered the keeping the toilet paper away from puppies/babies stage.


Consider this your warning when you use the main floor bathroom. Look on the shelf behind you if you need a square.

The River Palm Terrace- A Steak house That Cannot Cook Steak

I am a Foodie. I love seeking out new experiences for my taste buds. I have eaten in some of the world's finest dining establishments from Thomas Keller's Per Se to Disney's Victoria and Albert's. In my entire dining out history, there has been only one time when I sent something back to the kitchen. At least, that was my history until last night. Last night, while dining at the River Palm Terrace in Mahwah, I had to send my dinner back to the kitchen not once but twice. Yes, you did, in fact, read that last sentence correctly. I had to send a filet mignon back twice. I simply gave up after the second screw up. I feared what would appear before me if I chanced a third time. I am still dumbfounded that "New Jersey's premier steak house" (their description as it appears on their website) apparently does not know how to cook a piece of meat. Actually, they did not know how to cook two pieces of meat. They incorrectly prepared John's veal chop as well.
   
The night started out well. My family and I were in a celebratory mood. We were gathered together for my father's seventieth birthday dinner. The ambiance was lovely. The menu got my mouth watering. I was in a particularly carnivorous mood, so I ordered the filet mignon. John and I decided to split our appetizers and sides in order to get a broader experience of the menu. The coconut shrimp were delicious. The shrimp were plump and tender. The coconut coating was dense and crispy. Although fried, it was not greasy at all. The fruit chutney accompaniment complimented the dish well, but the shrimp were so well prepared and tasty, it was not necessary. The crab cake was wonderful as well. It had just the right amount of binding ingredients to keep the crab in its cake form without cutting into the taste of the crab itself. The horseradish/mustard dressing provided a surprisingly spicy kick which was welcome to the palate. The chopped salad which appeared after the appetizers was fine. The vegetables were fresh and dressed well. The oil and vinegar combination was well balanced with neither ingredient dominant. The only reason I did not finish the salad was I did not want to spoil my appetite for my main dish.


The main courses appeared with the sides. Everything looked wonderful. I cut into my filet and happily noted its gradations of pink (the meat was ordered medium rare). I placed the first piece in my mouth and was assaulted by a plethora of salt. I was taken aback. I cut into another part of the steak. I figured I just hit a slightly over salted patch. To my dismay, the next piece was just as horribly over salted as the first. Unless something is described as "salt encrusted", I should not encounter a salty crunch. The salt was so overpowering it killed the taste of the meat. I commented to my family that my dish was horrible. My husband looked relieved that it was not just him who had an over salted piece of meat. We called the manager over and sent both our meals back. Unfortunately, both our dishes had half of the sides we ordered on them so we lost that part of our dinner as well. I was upset, but I figured the situation would be remedied quickly. Apparently, the staff at The River Palm and I have differing definitions of the word quickly. Twenty five minutes later John and I were presented with our main meals (minus the sides we had previously plated). By this point, my family had finished their dinners and the servers had cleared the table. They actually tried to clear away my utensils as well until I informed them that I had not even had my dinner yet. Needless to say, I was disappointed. The point of the family going out to eat was (gasp) to actually eat together. I swallowed my displeasure and cut into my filet once again. I looked at my steak and I could not believe my eyes. Instead of medium rare, I had a cool pink raw slab of cow in front of me. I looked over at John who, likewise, was staring in disbelief at his overly pink chop. We called the manager over again and showed him our meals. His response was a mumbled, "Sorry. We rushed it." Rushed it? Twenty five minutes to be presented with a raw steak is rushing a meal?!


Both John and I had the mud pie for dessert dinner. I honestly cannot give a good description of its taste. All the aggravation and upset of the last hour soured everything. In addition to careless food preparation, I had to deal with a staff that did care that my dinner was messed up not once, but twice. Our server never apologized for what happened either time. I also had to contend with the manager who had the audacity to waylay me as I left the restroom. Instead of apologizing for all the issues surrounding the meal, he informed me that there was nothing wrong with the food and I should inform the cooking staff of any salt sensitivity. I could not believe my ears. He was actually trying to pin a preparation mistake on me! I explained that I have never experienced such sensitivity before. Why would I think that one would develop suddenly? Additionally, regardless of his opinion of the steak, it is the diner's opinion which matters. I then expressed my disappointment with their inability to cook meat properly and my shock that it took so long to have something raw come to the table. The manager told me that the meat went on the grill right away. I explained that if that was true then I would not have gotten a raw piece of meat but a charred one considering the length of time that passed and the high temperatures they use when cooking. I guess it was a fitting end to a horrible dining experience. It is sad that the staff at my local diner would show more concern over my disappointment with a meal.