The only recurring nightmare in my repertoire of dreams involves a multistory restaurant full of irate customers. Throughout the ’90s, while I was living in New York City and waitressing for rent and tuition money, I had the dream all the time. There were floors and floors of tables in my section and by the time I climbed the stairs to the umpteenth floor with five plates balanced on my arm, I would look down to find the food was burnt, or cold, or gone.
It may seem ridiculous to have anxiety dreams about something as mundane as waiting tables in a restaurant, but I don’t think most people recognize how difficult it is to perfectly orchestrate the preparation and delivery of plate after plate after plate. So it’s with compassion that I make the following criticism of what has been, for the last two years, my absolute favorite restaurant in town.
The service at Mashiko has started to suck. About three weeks ago, I went in with my regular sushi date right after work. This regular date has been a regular, devoted Mashiko customer since the place opened, and while I’ve certainly never done anything to reveal myself as the writer of many glowing Mashiko reviews, we feel welcomed there—or we did, up until recently.
On this particular weekday evening, we purposefully arrived at 6, pre-pre-rush hour. By 6:20 we hadn’t gotten a word in edgewise with the waitress—a woman who has waited on us countless times. Our menus were closed; at this point we hardly need to open them, we practically have a standing order.
Just as my date was beginning to look as if he might crack from a combo of hunger and agitation, a couple walked in apprehensively and, seeing our table empty but for the menus and impatiently twiddling thumbs, asked us (I swear I couldn’t make this shit up if I wanted to) how long we had been waiting. When we told them, they said they had heard that the food was great, but the wait was really long. We looked at our waitress, who showed no sign of coming anywhere near us any time soon, and walked down the street to get veggie burritos from Taqueria Guayamas.
This wasn’t an isolated incident. We’ve recently noted that our dinners have grown longer and longer and longer, and while we’re in no hurry—and certainly chef Hajime’s creations are worth lingering over—the lengthy visits have not been due to willful dallying. On the visit preceding the aborted one, our order of two of our favorite dishes was apparently not conveyed to the kitchen; they never arrived. And our agedashi tofu appetizer came last, and it only came after a really, really, really long time, and with no acknowledgement or apology for either oversight from our server. I don’t care how wonderful the soup or the dessert are—and I cannot say often enough how wonderful everything at Mashiko is—agedashi tofu and green tea tiramisu are not meant to rub elbows.
And it’s not just me; a co-worker and fellow West Seattleite and I have had many conversations lamenting Mashiko’s declining dedication to customer service. You should hear how we stumble over ourselves as we bitch about it—it breaks our hearts to speak ill of the best damn neighborhood sushi place in town. The food never disappoints, but lately, the service always does.
Here’s the thing: Mashiko isn’t cheap and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Hell, I like paying top dollar because I know the ingredients are the freshest around, and I know that the preparation is thoughtful, artful, and exact. But for my money, the service needs to follow. Regardless of the restaurant, an excellent dining experience demands a marriage of skilled service and outstanding food. You can’t have one without the other.
