That Fish Was Warmer Swimming in the Bayou

By Ken Steinhoff, guest blogger

I spent two weeks in San Jose learning how to use a new voice mail system. On the last day of the class, I tried like crazy to get back to West Palm Beach to beat a hurricane that was headed that way. Unfortunately, I ended up in Houston instead of WPB because all the flights to Florida were cancelled.

Here’s an account of my Houston experience sent to friends, family and the eating establishment in question:

The only place within walking distance of the place they stuck us “distressed travelers” was Oakley’s Restaurant in the Hyatt Intercontinental Hotel at 15747 John F. Kennedy Blvd., Houston, TX 77032.

A Dead Zone

The  joint was almost empty when I arrived, but it took several minutes for the greeter to see and seat me.

I decided on the Bayou Catfish order with garlic mashed potatoes, cole slaw and iced tea. The waitress brought a basket of bread. I didn’t have high hopes for hotel food, but this was really good. The tea was freshly brewed and also tasted great. Californians don’t know how to make good tea, so this was the first good glass of non-flavored tea I’d had in two weeks.

The main course took a while to get there (good cooking takes time, you know, so I wasn’t concerned), but, when it arrived, it looked great. I’m a little weak on cooking terms, but the fish was covered with some kind of browned corn-meal-looking stuff. The waiter asked if I’d like some lemon with it. I said that would be wonderful. He disappeared and I took my fork to cut into the fish.

It didn’t cut cleanly.

In fact, it didn’t cut at all.

You Can’t Cut Ice

I touched the white, translucent flesh. It was freezer-cold.

When the waiter came back, I said, “This fish ain’t even close to being cooked. It had a higher temperature when it was swimming in the bayou.”

He took the plate and walked toward the kitchen hollering for the cook. The waitress came back and promised that the fish would be replaced. “It’s on the house,” she said. I told her that was more than I expected, but, “Thanks.”

When the plate came back a few minutes later, the fish was some of the best I’ve ever eaten. It was cooked perfectly. I took my first forkful of garlic mashed potatoes and found that they were excellent, also.

Waiter! There’s a . . .

Then my eye went to something in the middle of the potatoes. Something dark and unpotato-like. I tentatively stretched one tine of my fork to the corner of it and pulled. A long, black hair pulled out of the center of the potatoes. When I released it, it curled back like a spring.

I continued to eat the fish. When the waitress came by to see how I was doing, I told her that the catfish was excellent and the first bite of potatoes was very good.

Then I pointed out the long, black hair coiled up in the middle of the potatoes. “Mam,” I said, “you’ve already compped out the meal. I assure you that I wouldn’t have wasted a hair that good on a meal that was already free. It came that way.”

“Would you like fries with that?” she asked, clearly mortified.

“No, I don’t think I can handle any more surprises,” I answered.

“Would you at least like for me to remove the potatoes from your plate?”

“No, I feel more comfortable if the plate never leaves my sight. I’ll just eat the fish.”

When All Else Fails, Get Pie

A few minutes later, she came by and asked if I wanted to take a chance on the desert cart. “I’ll understand if you don’t,” she said.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll just eat with my eyes closed.”

For the record, the chocolate pie was great.

I walked back up there for breakfast. The Belgium waffles with strawberries and cream came without the strawberries and cream even though they showed up on the check. Since Hyatt is the only place within easy walking distance, I’ll be giving regular updates.

The 12-egg recipe actually works. A dozen eggs plus one can of pumpkin plus the spices will simply produce a very eggy pumpkin pudding — or a pumpkin egg dish, great for breakfast. And if you don’t overbake it till tough, it’s kind of tasty in a weird way. 

Cut the eggs back to 6 for a really good custard, and omit the crust and bump up the spices by a teaspoon. Add 1/4 cup more milk. Bake in a casserole or individual greased ramekins till just set — a knife inserted will come out clean. Serve it with cinnamon ice cream and drizzle with warm caramel ice cream topping. It’s great!

Her note questioning the price of an entree has me wondering if the restaurateurs are crazy from the heat. This is September in S.Fla. — hurricane season (clean out the freezers, boys). The Dead Zone already. How can owners think they can charge their patrons exhorbitantly for little, and still survive?

Here are snippets of her note: “Last night we had dinner at (an east Boca Italian spot).  (Jan’s aside: It’s a nice reliable — but nothing all that ta-da.) We ordered from the specials (recited by a waiter); I was attracted by the Langoustines on linguine.”
She notes it was “very good — four of the little critters in garlic butter sauce on a little pasta.” Stress the word “little.”

But she wonders — was it worth the $56 price tag for that entree? That dish, plus a $40 bottle of wine, plus a veal chop totalled up to a $175 meal ticket for two. Hmm.!

They met up wtih two other couples outside in the parking lot who also were fuming over a $350 dinner for four.

My friend explains the prices weren’t listed when the waiter recited the meal specials. “I should known,” she said. Still, “I was really mad. He (the waiter) looked kind of sheepish when I ordered the dish and asked him to tell me a little bit about it. I feel taken advantage of.”

How would I have handled it? I would have:

1/ Gotten the prices of the specials before ordering. If they aren’t given, I come right out and ask.  I don’t play those games where the price can change with attitude. 

2/ After being presented with such a small portion, I would have asked if they had mistakenly given me a child’s portion, perhaps, since I believed I was paying an adult price.

3/ Probably would not go back, just as my friend has decided not to. And I’d tell others who blog. Quickest way to a restaurateur’s heart is through his wallet.

Moral of story: Diners: Get prices for foods. Restaurateurs: It IS about value, no matter what your level.