Old people like to complain and my mother is no exception so, I’ve learned to take what she tells me with a grain of salt. But when the details of mom’s aggravation concerning food quality at her nursing home started tickling my waiter sixth sense, I did the most sensible thing I could – I joined her for dinner.
Sitting down at 5:10 pm. I immediately saw the dining room staff was either new or untrained and there certainly wasn’t enough of them. I’m a fairly patient guy and understand staffing in nursing homes have suffered greatly since the pandemic but, as the minutes ticked by, I could feel my blood pressure start to spike.
My dinner came almost immediately but the “chicken tenders” were lukewarm and looked like they came frozen out of the box while the “beet salad” advertised on the menu was a bean salad that probably came out of a can, served in a plastic dixie cup. “Where’s the chef’s breadbasket that was on the menu?” I asked.
“We don’t have it,” the server said.
My dinner finished; my mother’s meal had still not arrived. “Excuse me,” I said to a server at 5:57 pm, “My mother hasn’t gotten her dinner yet.”
“Oh?” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Please bring it.”
“Yes, sir.” Then I watched the server confer with one of her colleagues. “I brought her dinner,” he said.
“No, you did not,” I said, loud enough to be heard.
“They think I’m a liar now,” my mom said, nervously.
“It’ll be all right, Mom,” I said, patting her hand. Then, when my mom’s dinner came, I took a picture of it and texted it to the nursing home’s administrator. Let me tell you, there are prison kitchens that turn out a better product – but the inmates aren’t shelling out over nine grand a month for the pleasure of being there. Oh, and the ice cream served for dessert was more like a custard – melted and unappetizing.
The administrator responded promptly to my text, apologizing for the shortfall and, when I was driving home, I also got a call from the head of food services. “I have a background in restaurants,” I said. “And you know that food is a big morale booster. I want to be able to take my mom’s granddaughter for dinner at your place and for both of them to be happy.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. Then, after admitting they were understaffed, he said he’d talk to the chef and seek to make improvements. Fair enough and I’ll give them time, but I’m going to watch them like hawks. Like Jake and Elwood from The Blues Brothers dining at Chez Paul, my brother and I might come there “for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day of the week.” HOW MUCH FOR THE LITTLE GIRL? SELL ME YOUR CHILDREN! That’ll probably ruffle a few feathers. I think I can throw a shrimp cocktail into my brother’s mouth.
All kidding aside, this is not the first time my mom’s nursing home has dropped the ball, and my patience is growing very, very, thin. But seeing my mom served tired looking crap by the very people I’ve entrusted her care to have sent my anger into overdrive. Driving home steaming, I thought of Liam Neeson’s phone call to his daughter’s kidnappers in the film, Taken. “What I do have are a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you.” And boy, I’ve had a long career lambasting entitled customers, crazy restaurant owners, tip skimming managers, coke snorting cooks and bat shit foodies. My media rolodex is still wide and varied and, since I’m now in a very advanced state of ill humor, I’m beginning to think Nursing Home Rant might be my next literary adventure.
