I hate chain restaurants. I mostly hate anywhere that gimmicks people into thinking they are having a great experience by surrounding them with balloons.
There are only two outcomes from eating at a chain restaurant: either I feel like I am in some sort of sugary commercial or I feel like I am on the set of the behind-the-smiles filming of the making-of-the-chain restaurant commercial. Simply put, I either experience the facade or I am reminded that it is, in fact, a facade. The balloon trick should really only work until the grand age of 9, and yet the people concurrently sharing my franchised experience also really seem to be a part of Balloontown. I mean, would the restaurant re-open if the championship local sports team pulled up in a bus 5 minutes after close? Fuck no, the cooks would be already drunk by then.
Admittedly, I can't deny a tabbed-by-drink-style book of beverages, despite the fact that it's named the Captain's Bar Log. Maybe I'm a sellout, maybe I've given up, maybe I just wanted a goddamned blueberry mojito without getting any holier-than-thou attitude from the bartender. Get off my nuts already.
I am not an advocate of Jimmy Buffet, "Parrotheads", the thought of Jimmy Buffet, or any other excuse (musical or otherwise) for middle-aged singles to get obscenely drunk, smoke pot and behave like the Duke lacrosse team. But his particular chain can make one hell of a mojito, and since they brand themselves to be an island getaway in the midst of congested mall traffic, they have to make them with a smile. They have to. They even have a interchangeable Blue Man Group-esque team of guitar-playing men that sound all reasonably like Jimmy Buffet that take requests - IF within the approved vocal range and the approved decades.
On this particular trip to Paradise, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. I noticed that it slowly began to darken in the dining area and as I slowly focused my attention away from the table of (empty) mojitos I noticed that it was truly Carribean-style monsooning outside. Previous to this realization, the group consensus was to pay our tab and flee. The weather provided more than enough justification for us to stay. The trees were dark against and even darker sky of an indescribable color and swayed nearly sideways from the extreme winds. Sheets of rain danced through the parking lot, and passing cars flew by with waves of water chasing them. We were in Paradise, and this was all a quiet backdrop to the soothing sounds of James Taylor, The Eagles, and our soon to be requested song.
I turned to my friend and asked for a dollar, so that we might get to request the perfect song to cement our experience.
"OK," he said while thumbing through his wallet, "But if I find one, you have to request the song."
Knowing that our request was blatantly transcendent of both vocal range and generation, I did not want to request it. Thankfully, our bartender-waiter saw the exchange transpire and offered his services.
"Do you guys want to request a song?" I admired his innocence.
"Yeah, we wanted to hear Wicked Game by Chris Isaak. Does he know that one?" I asked.
"Well I actually play in a band with Dave," he said proudly, "But I don't think he knows this one. Now if I were up there, I could sing it for you but I'll see what I can do." He disappeared, briefly spoke to the guitar player and returned to our table. The weather outside of our cabana was unaffected by this exchange.
He approached the table more slowly than he had left, foreshadowing the bad news.
"He doesn't know that one," he said slowly, "like I said I could've done it for you, but..." He trailed off in a moment of thought. "He did say that he would do something falsetto and within that same general year of music style."
We shared a glance around the table, equally bearing the expected disappointment and cautious anticipation that our dollar would bring.
We sipped on what we knew to be our last mojitos as we waited for Dave to finish his current selection, before the performance that was to personalize our absolutely perfect chain restaurant experience. As the song was finishing, the manager briskly walked by our table and caught my eye. I pointed to the storm outside, and jokingly said, "Hey, can we get a refund? I'm supposed to be in Paradise."
"It rains in Paradise, too." He said it without missing a beat, a conditioned, in-the-manual response to another asshole customer's predicted question.
As scripted, our song began. Dave closed his eyes, pressed his lips together and began our custom performance, singing in a slightly higher voice than before.
/I would have given you all of my heart
/but there's someone who's torn it apart
I knew the words but I couldn't place it. We sat in silence at our table, while listening to our song.
/and she's taking almost all that I've got
My friend across the table narrowed his brows. "Is this...this is The First Cut is the Deepest?"
I started to nod.
"Sheryl Crow?"
We wanted sexy; we got balloons.
Jimmy Buffet, you win again.
