My mother had several alcoholic tricks. The first, of course, was to get drunk at home before she even got in the car. Drinking began every day at 11:00 AM. If we had to go out to lunch, the early start would fortify her until we reached the closest cheap restaurant, where she would stop at the bar to get a drink on the way in, then carry it with her, rather than waiting to order a drink at the table.
Refills after that were ordered from whichever waiter or waitress was being punished by God that day.
All drinks were straight up, because "ice took up too much room in the glass." Once she gave the waiter instructions for a martini ... with no olive and no Vermouth. He said evenly, "So, what you want is a glass of gin?"
"Right," said my mother.
I had to explain alcohol to my kids early on, so they could understand the dynamics, and why Gamma kept wishing everyone a Happy a Memorial Day when it was Labor Day. My son once asked my mother with a cute little innocent face, "Whatcha drinking, Gamma? Iced tea?"
"Whishkey," she intoned as if it were a serious life lesson. "Whishkey."
My mother always made a big fuss about ordering Canadian whisky (spelled with no "e"), as if the restaurant might not be educated enough to carry it. In fact, Canadian whisky was known for being a piss poor choice - like insisting on Velveeta instead of Vermont aged cheddar. At a high-end restaurant, she once insisted on "Canadian Red," and the waitress was frantically trying to figure out which expensive brand that was. It's not a brand - it's shorthand for "very bad, cheap, blended Canadian whisky of no particular name."
My mother favored imitation quaint restaurants - Olde Inns, Taverns, Pubs, and so on. The food was irrelevant. She had no patience whatsoever, so it was important to find a restaurant that was empty. Usually a bad sign in a restaurant.
Going out to eat with my parents was utterly humiliating. My mother would endlessly torture the waitress, and my father did not believe in tips. I once intervened and added a 20% tip, and when my parents realized what I had done they insulted me for being stupid and profligate. I thought the waitress deserved much more.
All her life my mother had been called to meals at certain times, and food prepared by The Cook was immediately served to her by The Maids. The concept of waiting for food to be ready was utterly missing from her brain. She did not have the smallest modicum of patience or politeness. Once at a restaurant, she harassed the wait staff mercilessly from the moment she sat down.
I think the most memorable dinner was a family reunion at a restaurant with a name like Beak 'n' Claw, or Hoof 'n' Feather, or maybe it was Scales 'n' Tails. Unfortunately there was a large party going on in a separate room, so the kitchen and waitstaff were very busy.
Our table comprised my parents; my brother and his three young daughters; and my husband and me with our two young children. My brother and my father were down at one end of the table pontificating with each other and ignoring everyone else. My brother's girls were lined up next to him, littlest first. My mother was at the opposite end, with my family.
We were seated directly across from the shiny swinging doors that led into, and out of, the kitchen. Wait staff would suddenly burst forth with dinners for the party in the other room, narrowly missing waiters and waitresses on their way in.
Our waitress arrived and my mother ordered another drink while still finishing her first one - like chain smoking, except chain drinking. Already her face had gone slack, and her movements had taken on an underwater quality. She would reach for her glass slowly and with great concentration, as if moving any faster might startle it.
The waitress returned with her drink and my mother was already restive. This was going to be a long, difficult meal.
We had to order everything all at once, in a hurry, in order to get our food as quickly as possible. My mother always asked the same rude questions that suggested the restaurant was trying to kill us ("Is it fresh?" "Did you make this a week ago?" "How old are these eggs?"). Ironically the restaurant could have served her frozen mastodon burgers and she would not have noticed the difference.
My mother's salad took too long to arrive. She harassed the waitress, who said she was doing the best she could. The salad finally arrived, but battle lines had already been drawn. Where were our meals?
The waitress tried to explain they were busy, but that was a waste of time. My mother demanded to talk to The Management.
An older woman came over and tried to calm down my mother, who was beginning to have an all-out meltdown. "We've come ALL THE WAY FROM NARRAGANSETT," she said imperiously, adding, "THE CHILDREN NEED THEIR DINNERS."
The kids looked surprised, since they were all perfectly fine - except the littlest, who was being completely ignored by her father. She was starting to pick fights to get attention.
The hostess looked at my mother in surprise and said, "Narragansett? That's not very far!" And in fact it was not. "Can I get you something else while you wait?"
"NO!" shouted my mother, deciding to turn on the crocodile tears. Her voice escalated. "We've been waiting here for HOURS!"
It might have been half an hour, tops. My youngest niece, taking her cue from my mother's behavior, turned to her father and socked him in the arm has hard as she could.
While my niece was getting yelled at, my mother stood up shakily from the table and set her eye on the doors to the kitchen.
My young son sensed immediately what was about to happen and exclaimed, "Somebody poke my eyes out! I don't want to see this!"
Sure enough, my mother set a course straight through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The rest of us sat aghast and immobilized, half expecting her to be thrown out like a drunk cowboy from a saloon.
I think she may have been the first customer to actually show up in the middle of a busy kitchen to complain. I imagine her standing there, confused by the profusion of cooks because she was no doubt seeing double by then. I doubt there was anyone standing around waiting to listen politely to her concerns.
She made it back to her seat and I kept pleading with her to stop picking on the staff. If you deliberately choose a godawful restaurant, you lose your complaining rights.
There was not enough bread for the table because they had to "thaw out some more." Our meals finally arrived, and no one was more relieved than our waitress. I don't remember if I had the beak, the claw, the hoof, the feather, the scales or the tails - it was all awful, and the children were not allowed to order dessert because they did not finish their horrible dinners. Really my mother - the doting grandmother - just didn't want to pay for any ice cream.
In the car home, my mother sat angry, silent, and slightly at an angle. She would take to her bed immediately, annoyed by everyone. Since this whole exercise gave her so little pleasure, I wondered why she bothered.
Then I remembered. My mother actually existed in a parallel universe, where she boasted to her friends about these occasions to prove that she WAS TOO beloved by her family, and we all had SO MUCH FUN together. After a few glasses of straight gin, the reality was irrelevant. All that remained was a hologram in her brain of a lovely dinner that never actually took place.
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