Going to the dogs

A writer friend and I had lunch today at our neighbourhood restaurant, along with her dog, which is the size of a pony. The three of us have eaten there often (and for those Americans reading this, dogs are allowed in restaurants).
I'd reserved a table in a corner so the dog would be out of the way. When we arrived, a new waitress looked at the dog and said the dog was too big to come in. I told her I had booked a corner table for that reason. She acted like the principle who caught a student defacing school property.
This is a restaurant where I've eaten regularly. My housemate and I are there probably about once a week. We take friends there, and guests too.
Fortunately the owner was nearby and over ruled the waitress, who periodically walked by where we'd been stashed and rolled her eyes, scowled and hurumphed. As much as I love Switzerland, the concept of client service is often that the client is there to service the store, restaurant or what have you. However, this restaurant has always had exceptional service.
I suspect she will not have a long career there.

Here's a piece I had published in the anthology It's a Dog's World from Traveler's Tales. The grumpy waitress could take a lesson from the woman in Germany.

Dogs' Night Outby D.L. Nelson
Two canine brothers find a little patch of dog heaven in a Heidelberg restaurant.
"Bring the boys," Llara said. Normally when I visited her in Heidelberg, Germany for a quality mother-daughter weekend, my Japanese chins, Albert and Amadeus, were canine non-grata.
That was because of Waterloo, her rabbit. The first time the boys and waterloo met, the rabbit dived under the bed and spent the rest of the weekend tapping out danger warnings to all the non-existent bunnies in the building.
"What about Waterloo?" I asked.
"I got tired of her chewing everything." My daughter was talking on a new telephone. Waterloo had eaten her old one. "I found a family that promised not to turn her into dinner."
Unlike in America, many public places happily accommodate dogs. At the Café du Soleil, my favorite Geneva bistro and a regular stop for fondue, the owner welcomes them and always stops at our table to say, "Bonjour Albert. Bonjour Amadeus." Only afterwards does he add, "Comment-allez vous Madame Nelson?"
Last month when I was in the French Midi, I ducked into a museum, half to escape the rain and half to look at the exhibit.
"We don't allow dogs," the cashier said, "but you can check them with your raincoat and umbrella." When I returned from a shortened visit, I found Amadeus playing with another checked dog and Albert asleep on the lap of the woman running the coat room.
So knowing travel and dogs presented no problem, I grabbed an overnight bag, their leashes, and passports. These are issued by my local vet and contain a complete shot record, although for all the years I've lived in Europe, I have never been asked to show them at a border crossing. Five hours of driving time later we pulled into a parking place in front of Llara's student apartment house.
After the normal greetings, my daughter, who claims cooking causes pimples, suggested we go out to dinner. Having eaten her attempts, I agreed.
We wandered through the old section of Heidelberg, looking into windows and admiring the lighted castle above. The dogs trotted along, leaving their marks at appropriate spots.
"Let's eat at the Kupfer Kanne," my daughter said. We had both dined there several times on earlier visits and had enjoyed the warmth both from the ceramic stove as we entered and the woman who we had guessed was the owner.
We were never sure if her, "Nice to have you with us," was because she remembered us or because she was friendly.
"Is it okay to bring the dogs in?" My daughter asked in German, as the same woman, dressed in the traditional aproned dirndl, bustled up with menus in hand.
The woman looked down for the first time, turned on her heel, and led us to a small alcove off the main dining room. We'd never noticed it before. Ours was the only table, but it was set with the same linen as the others we'd passed and decorated with similar fresh daisies.
"Probably doesn't want anyone to see the dogs," my daughter said.
The boys settled in as we studied our menus. The woman reappeared and waited as we selected a white wine. I wanted trout. Llara chose pork chops. After taking our order, the woman listed what I took as the daily specials because I recognized the words for lamb and beef. It seemed strange to do that after we had ordered. My confusion didn't last long.
"She's naming dog food. She's going to feed the boys," Llara explained. "Is lamb okay for them?"
Within ten minutes all four of us were happily eating, the dogs at their usual vacuum-cleaner speed and Llara and I more slowly. The woman poked her head into the room and asked if the dogs wanted seconds.
"Nein, danke," my daughter said.
After we finished the main course, Llara and I both gave into apple strudel and espresso. The dogs were almost asleep when the owner brought the equivalent for them--a bowl of water and doggie candy.
As we finished our coffee another couple, who had been eating in the main room came by to meet the American dogs that the owner had told them about. Llara found herself answering the usual questions.
"No, they aren't related. One has English parents, the other has French."
"Fourteen and eight years old."
"They've flown the Atlantic eight times. In the baggage compartment. Without problems."
We ordered more coffee as the rest of the diners came in to say a few words and tell us about their animals. By 10:00 P.M. interest in the boys and us had waned, and we were finally alone.
"What do you think she'll charge for the dog food?" I asked as the woman disappeared to add up the costs.
Under the table Albert let out a long burp.
The woman returned, presented us the bill and opened the black money purse ubiquitous to all German waiters and waitresses. I scanned the numbers. Only the human meals were on it.
"Fur die Hunden?" I managed. The woman said something I didn't catch.
"She says they were her guests," my daughter translated.
From under the table, Albert burped again.