Picture the Pot Roast

Nine years ago this week, I was eating a group dinner at a chain restaurant in Burbank. Roughly two dozen employees were working an upcoming college football game in person because, at the time, physical tickets still mattered. Upon arriving late, I was seated beside one of the three senior managers in attendance, a serious man named Craig. It was our first meeting.

I don’t remember what I ordered that night—probably a sandwich—but I certainly remember every detail of Craig’s order. As I sat beside him, aware from the counsel of trusted colleagues that he could be a bit indecipherable, I offered a dollop of friendliness as he struggled with what option to choose. He pointed to a New England favorite pictured on the menu, succulent pot roast sitting in its juices and gravy accompanied by carrots more orange than the Dutch and roasted herb fingerling potatoes. It reminded me of early afternoon holiday dinners in my grandparents’ dining room, but because he was delaying our group’s order, I couldn’t have been more encouraging about his selection.

As our meals were served a toast was made—expense account beer always tasted great—plus a few people took group selfies. Craig, a teetotaler, had asked for a refill of his Diet Coke, which he’d sucked down while we shared a smattering of throwaway sentences. The waitress brought out the beverage in tandem with his much-ballyhooed pot roast.

“Um,” Craig said, unsure what to do with himself.

“You ordered the pot roast, right?” the waitress asked him.

“Sure, yes. But it looks nothing like it did in the picture.”

“Huh?”

“It looked much more appetizing in the picture on the menu.”

“Well, the disclaimer says that it won’t look exactly like it does in the picture, but that’s the one we serve to everyone.”

“No, I don’t think so. This meat is dry.” Craig timidly poked it with his fork likely afraid the desiccated beast might break into a thousand pieces.

“There are, uh, juices there,” the waitress said, her carefully worded statement truthful yet teetering on the edge of defeat.

“This is lukewarm,” Craig said while chewing a carrot.

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

“There’s very little seasoning on these potatoes too.”

“Again, I’m sorry. Let me get you something else.”

“Thank you. Can I see the menu?”

Someone handed him the laminated rectangle while the waitress patiently waited. All other diners took to their entrees like Robin Williams to a mood swing. Craig made sure to hold the menu beside his plate, steadfastly assuring his underlings that this was no optical illusion.

“Also…this Diet Coke isn’t very bubbly,” Craig said as he twirled his straw in the visibly effervescent cup.

“I’ll get you another one.”

“Hmm…” Craig said. “Ya know, I still want it, so I’ll have…the pot roast.”

“It’s made as part of a huge roast. The next piece will be from the same pot.”

“That’s fine. I want a new piece, not this one reheated.”

“Okayyyy,” the waitress said as if she were questioning reality. “I’ll get that for you right away.”

“Can you believe that?” Craig said to nobody yet everybody who’d witnessed the incident. “Looked nothing like the picture.”

“And how about your flat Diet Coke, huh?” I added, fighting with all the power I possessed to not lay the sarcasm on too thick.

“Yeah, that’s right!” he said like he’d forgotten.

Craig then walked to the fountain area, spoke with the waitress at length, and even began filling a new cup with ice before she kindly insisted he return to the table. Minutes later, his fresh pot roast arrived, and the waitress stood by for his review. As soon as the plate hit the table, Craig couldn’t be duped.

“This is the same piece of pot roast,” Craig said to her. He was agitated now.

“We discarded the first piece, sir. As I told you, it’s cut from the same roast so it’s likely going to be just like the first plate you received.”

“But it looks nothing like it does on the menu!”

“We can get you something else, but it will be a few minutes. Do you want to try it?”

“I guess,” he said, as if considering the option had been beneath him. “Could I get another Diet Coke?” His glass still contained dehydrating darkness, but he wasn’t waiting for a follow up round if he slugged it all while gurgling his first bite of meat brittle.

“They call those herbs on the potatoes?” I said indignantly, another employee who knew my angle masking his laughter.

“Where’s that menu?” Craig asked.

As he perused it, he continued to eat a few bites of his second inferior pot roast.

“I think I’m gonna get a burger,” he told me. “They can’t mess that up.”

“True. Ted had one and it looked just like the picture. Very juicy.”

Now Paolo turned his head to avoid laughing too hard.

“Have you decided on something?” our exhausted waitress asked with admirable restraint.

“I’ll take a burger,” Craig said. “Medium rare.”

He briefly acknowledged the hassle then resumed a conversation with others, politely requesting that someone text him the group photo. Everybody had finished eating or was too stuffed to continue. Many consumed an additional corporate-funded glass of beer or slice of something sweet while waiting for Craig to eat his photogenic deceased cow.

“I’m getting full from all these Diet Cokes,” he told me while laughing.

“Go easy. The fries looked great too. Better save room.”

Craig’s burger arrived faster than burgers tend to. He admired its buttery brioche bun and the vividly green romaine lettuce slice, plus he couldn’t deny the rivers of bloody wetness! The SLR that had shot the gorgeous frame depicting it on the menu told no lies: this was certainly a burger worthy of a centerfold.

After his second bite, several co-workers left to smoke cigarettes and/or say farewell until the morning. Craig refused the cardboard box offered to house his remnants, insisting he was too full. He turned toward the table, and while I reached for my lighter, I looked back to see him fondle beside his plate only to realize he’d nearly forgotten his phone. He took a final sip of Diet Coke and followed me out.

“Would’ve hated to get to the hotel and had to come back for this,” he told me with his phone in hand.

All I could think about was another phone. How often was the front desk switchboard going to light up after Craig gazed in horror at the scaffolding cloaking a landmark building in the distance outside his sixth-floor window? Even scarier, how would the bathroom mirror fare after he checked his appearance in the group photo?