Deafeningly dumb dining
My wife and I dine out with friends two or three times a week and have always enjoyed trying new places. Until recently.
A few weeks ago, we met up with two couples at a trendy new restaurant foodies are raving about. It doesn’t offer full meals, only small plates meant to be shared. (Not to digress, but what’s the point of sharing a “small” plate? If the food is something the chef is proud of, it should be served on a large plate with enough on it that everyone can get more than a teaspoonful, but that turned out not to be a problem at this particular restaurant — the dishes were repulsive.) The menu featured a short list of bizarre small plates including “Japanese sweet potato” and “Cauliflower and Caviar with Curry in a Coconut Sauce.” Lest a patron request that a particularly repugnant ingredient—or one to which they are allergic—be omitted, the menu arrogantly advises that “changes and modifications are politely declined.” That was insult #1.
Insult #2 was worse: the noise level was so excruciatingly loud it was impossible to hear our companions. Recorded music was blaring, the tables were packed so close together individual voices were impossible to distinguish, and there was no soundproofing whatsoever. We ate quickly and got out of there.
The third and final insult was our share of the tab: $260.00.
I ate a frozen Stouffer’s pizza when we got home. For several days my wife swore she had lost some of her hearing due to the noise, but luckily, it returned.
Weekend before last, we visited another new establishment, an upscale Greek restaurant. We invited friends we hadn’t seen in months, eager to catch up.
When we arrived, the place was hopping. But once again, the background music was incredibly loud. SO LOUD CONVERSATION WAS IMPOSSIBLE. You could lean in and scream to the person seated on either side, but the person across the table might as well have been in another zip code.
This time the food was decent. But shortly after our entrees arrived (on normal-sized plates, a nice touch), our waiter began handing out tea towels. He leaned in to inform us individually—he couldn’t have told all four of us at once because it would have been impossible for us to hear—that a "ritual" was about to begin. We were instructed to swing the towels over our heads.
Moments later, a new vocal track started cranking up... and UP... AND UP. The singer sounded like Yoko Ono having a colonoscopy without the benefit of anesthesia. My Apple Watch flashed a warning: the noise level had reached 101 decibels—the equivalent of a gas-powered leaf blower. Around us, diners waved their towels like joyless automatons. I didn’t see any smiles. I assume they, like me, were wondering why they were paying Naples restaurant prices to pretend they were dishwashers. My wife later said a waiter did a backflip, but I missed it; I was too busy trying not to bolt for the door.
One of our companions went to the front desk to see if the music could be dialed down. He returned looking frustrated. The music continued. We signaled for the check, paid it, and left. On the way out, I screamed over the music to the manager that we wouldn’t be back. He said something, perhaps “Up yours, old man, you should have stayed home and watched Wheel of Fortune.” I wouldn’t know—I couldn’t hear him.
Once outside, I quickly realized that my tinnitus—a condition I share with millions of people that causes ringing in the ears —had flared up so severely I couldn’t hear our friends as we said our goodbyes.
Fuming, I left feedback that night on the restaurant’s website. I praised the food and decor but made it clear that because of the volume, we would never return.
The next day, the General Manager emailed back:
"I sincerely apologize that the volume and evening celebration negatively impacted your dining experience... I would love the opportunity to make this right and invite you back for a complimentary chef-curated dinner for two..."
I wrote back declining the free dinner, explaining that the 101 dB exposure had exacerbated my tinnitus, causing significant, hopefully temporary, hearing loss. I told him I was tempted to report the establishment to the Health Department for excessive noise, but would hold off on the assumption that they’ll do the right thing and turn down the volume in the future.
The next day my tinnitus got worse. My right ear became painful—something I’ve never experienced after years of living with the condition. More than a week later, the ringing is so loud I have trouble sleeping.
I forwarded my emails to and from the manager to our friends who were with us. One wrote back that maybe I should accept the free dinner.
And perhaps I will. But only if they agree to deliver it by DoorDash, so we can eat it as we watch Wheel of Fortune in the quiet of our own home, while waving tea towels over our heads.
