Warm Plates, Cold Shoulders

It was all my fault, there was no question about it. But what could I have done this time to upset the counter gal at the South End Buttery? When I approached the bakery case to place my order, she looked up just long enough to say "Yeah?" in a tone that made me recall Michael Jackson's "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'," minus the festive dance beats and the line when Michael psychs out the enemy by calling him a vegetable.

"One butterscotch scone," I said, and then quickly added a "please" for good measure. Was it my eye contact? My grin? Darn my good-natured pleasantness. It's always betraying me in these situations. When will I learn not to smile at the Buttery?

This isn't the first time I've gotten the icy eyeball here. The problem is that the Buttery makes a butterscotch scone so good, I'm always back despite the bad treatment. Who am I kidding; I'd sell my left lung for half a dozen butterscotch scones (both lungs for a baker's dozen). This is part of my love-hate relationship with the Buttery, a quaint little corner bakery and cafe with some of the surliest help in town. When I was in the throes of a serious cupcake addiction last year, I would often turn to the Buttery for my fix. But after being abused by the sneers and lack of thank-yous, I broke it off. This cupcake junkie had too much dignity to endure it any longer, and I promptly took my business to other pastry pushers around town. And trust me on this, it takes a lot for a man addicted to cupcakes to break it off with his dealer.

The Buttery is an extreme case, but as someone who cooks about as often as Tommy Lee bathes, I can say with great authority that I am stymied by some of the actions of Boston servers and restaurant hosts. I am not a finicky diner and I don't expect waiters to smother me with kindness when I walk into a restaurant, but part of the reason I enjoy eating out – aside from my extreme laziness in the kitchen – is that I want to feel connected to other people. I can buy lamb chops for $6 at the grocery store and come up with a reasonable facsimile of what I order at Union. But what I enjoy about eating out is the feeling that I'm being taken care of. When service is good, there is one less worry on my mind, and I can focus on more important matters, such as planning my wardrobe for the Glen Campbell show at Mohegan Sun or deciding which variety of Cap'n Crunch I'll have for breakfast the next morning.

Naturally, I was thrilled when this magazine recklessly gave me the opportunity to sample a cross section of places and write about my experiences with restaurant service – the good and the bad. I drew up a list of eateries where I knew – or thought – the service would be exemplary and then added places where I had always dreamed of shamelessly flashing my corporate American Express card. Because my preferred diet is cupcakes, butterscotch scones, and Cap'n Crunch, with occasional visits from my close friend Little Debbie, my editor was adamant that I review only the service, not the food. Killjoy.

Good service is something that should stay pleasantly in the background, like the candlelight and the Bebel Gilberto album playing lazily over the speakers. This is part of the reason why Petit Robert Bistro in the South End is my favorite restaurant in Boston. Well, that, and the fact that I feel like I'm in Paris when I order the Kir Royale and the onion soup. I bring a friend to Petit Robert who, up until this point, claims he was not fond of the French, or their food. The night we visit, the restaurant is packed and we decide to squeeze into a table at the bar. Even though our harried waiter is running about like a lissome Bruce Jenner in a potato sack race, he's still gracious to a fault. His pacing is impeccable and he somehow anticipates our every need. My dinner companion is a real talker, the kind of guy who can chew your ear off, and then turn around and chew your other ear off. Despite my friend's Chatty Cathy tendencies, our waiter never rushes us. By the end of the meal, my friend is taking back all of his disparaging French remarks. Naturally, he talks about it for another hour.

It's important for me to point out the difference between Petit Robert Bistro in the South End and its sister restaurant in Kenmore Square. The food is identical, the service is not. While the wait staff at the South End location is French, the wait staff in Kenmore Square is made up of Boston University students who clearly got stuck working at Petit Robert because Pizzeria Uno was no longer accepting applications.

"Hey guys, welcome to Petit Robert" is the greeting that my party encounters one night in Kenmore Square. I don't think the lady in our group appreciates being referred to as one of the guys.

"Are you guys ready to order?"

The Old World charm continues as she tells us which of the specials she thinks are "awesome." She is also kind enough to give us encouraging feedback as we order. "Yeah, the skirt steak is really awesome. Are you guys going to the Red Sox game tonight?"

Given the choice between a waitress who likely polished her serving skills at Chili's and a gent who simply wants me out of his restaurant, I'll take the Chili's chick. I am very excited to try Bin 26 Enoteca, the new Beacon Hill restaurant and wine bar, with a co-worker who is the ultimate wine snob. I'm forever ordering alcohol that gives me the quickest buzz possible (thank you, Stoli), but my highfalutin colleague orders alcohol based on flavor. I still haven't gotten my head around this concept. But I like to have wine with Snobby because he can always tell me the breed of cows that supplied the manure to fertilize the grapes, and how that affects the flavor of the wine. Yum.

Bin 26 Enoteca is a happening spot, but we are seated before the restaurant gets too busy. We split an appetizer and a bottle of wine. Our waiter, who seemed pleasant enough when we arrived, slowly starts to turn on us. I start experiencing flashbacks to afternoons at the South End Buttery. Soon, he's left us, and the busboy is dropping off our dinner. The restaurant is getting busier, I'm getting more intoxicated. The food is excellent, and I'm beginning to think it's time for a second bottle of wine. Our waiter has other plans. He does not stop by to check on us and see if we require more wine. He's off chatting up patrons who are better dressed than me and Snobby.

I can live with no additional wine, but I'm floored by what comes next. Our waiter reappears to clear our plates. Fine, except I haven't finished my meal. There is no "May I take your plates for you?" One moment I'm lingering over the remainder of my chicken breast stuffed with prosciutto and fontina cheese, the next, I'm staring at an empty tablecloth. I'm not brave enough to stop him and reclaim my meal. I come from a long line of conflict-avoiding white Anglo-Saxon Protestants who would sooner stew in anger for a couple of months, then write a polite letter quietly spelling out their fury, rather than risk upsetting a total stranger.

I soon realize that the staff at Bin 26 Enoteca could learn a few tricks from my waiter at Stella. I tested the South End restaurant for speed the night I went to see The Light in the Piazza with my mom. As it turns out, we would have been better off staying at the restaurant and skipping the show. We inform the chipper waiter that we have a limited amount of time, and he springs into action. His ability to move our meal along quickly without making us feel rushed is most impressive. For example, he asks if we are finished before he clears our plates. My mother is thrilled with the service, but here is a woman whose idea of going out to eat is bringing her Lean Cuisine to the patio, so I can't officially count her opinion.

The idea of a premature plate clearing is nothing compared to the inane server behavior I've experienced at chain restaurants. I don't blame the wait staff for this, because I'm certain these are ideas that trickle down from brainstorming sessions at headquarters. No matter how many times a waiter has told me his name, I have never once been tempted to say, "I'll have the chicken fajita roll-up, John, and can you go easy on the jalapeno ranch sauce?" It's an idea that was clearly nicked from upscale restaurants, but I honestly can't remember the last time I was in a nice restaurant when the waitress needed to share her name.

Even worse are restaurants that ask, "Have you dined with us before?" My immediate reaction to this question is "Why? Did I skip out and not pay the check last time I was here?" Inevitably the question is posed because the menu needs to be explained. If a menu is so complicated that it requires a special explanation, it's probably time for another brainstorming session at headquarters.

I normally don't dine at Legal Sea Foods – I'm always afraid that Roger Berkowitz's "now-you-see-it, now-you-don't" mustache will show up in the tartar sauce. But under the guise of investigative culinary reporter, I gamely head south to Braintree for a visit.

"I'm Jean, and I'll be your server," our waitress says with a girlish grin. I order a steak, medium, and scour the menu for other expensive things to order. I decide that I like Jean. I even flirt with Jean a bit and give her a wink just to keep her on her toes. But I quickly realize that what Jean and I have is superficial. She doesn't like me for my dark eyes and devil-may-care grin. She's the exact same way with me as she is with everyone else. It's like she's following a script, and there's not much room for personality. This is my main complaint about chain restaurants, not just in Boston, but everywhere. Every moment is packed with "Can I start you with the barbecue chicken nachos or fried cheese?" When Jean brings out another round of Diet Coke before we even need to ask, it's not because my flirtation has paid off, it's because that's what she's been trained to do.

On the few occasions that I've been fortunate enough to dine at Radius, the service has been outstanding. Last year, I had lunch there with co-owner Christopher Myers, and it was the restaurant equivalent of hanging out at the daytime Emmys with Susan Lucci – minus the collagen injections. I felt like a superstar. That's why my return visit as an average citizen is so surprising. My waitress is friendly as she takes the drink order, but seems distracted. I soon see why. She is also tending to a table of 11. Every time I look over, she's smiling and doting on these big spenders, pouring more bottled water or wine. I look at her longingly over the top of my mint julep, recalling previous Radius visits where I received that much attention.

After taking our order, our waitress disappears like an ungrateful college student who comes home only to do her laundry. Our appetizers are dropped off by someone else. I'm about to take a sip of water when I notice, in the flickering candlelight, that there is a long, raspberry-colored strand of hair floating languidly in my glass. It's the same color as my waitress's hair.

Not a problem. She'll be back in a minute to check if I like my sashimi appetizer.

But she's not.

This is particularly painful because I'm watching the balding waitress go to the party of 11 and attentively fill their water glasses, as her hair taunts me in mine. I'm kind of thirsty, so I suck on the ice cubes in my mint julep. After that, I'm left chewing on the mint leaves like a camel trying to extract water from plants in the desert. We finish the appetizers, and plates are cleared by another server. The table of 11 gets another round of bottled water from our waitress, and I start contemplating taking my glass to the men's room and getting rid of that stubborn strand of raspberry-dyed hair myself.

A good 30 minutes after the hair and I are first introduced, our waitress stops by with sharp knives for the main course. Finally, I get another glass of water, which I quickly gulp down after a careful inspection. Dinner arrives, and it's flawless. But I don't have anyone to share this good news with. The food is brought by a runner, and our waitress – still working on that golden tip from the party of 11 – never bothers to make sure we got what we ordered. In fact, she doesn't return until our plates are cleared, again by someone else, and then tepidly asks, "How were your meals?" (Note her tactful use of the past tense.)

My final service inspection at a no-frills eatery is probably my favorite. Maybe this says more about me than about restaurant service in Boston. There is a place in Roslindale that time forgot, called the Pleasant Cafe. I imagine that the paneled walls and faux-walnut Formica tables look exactly as they did when the The Dick Van Dyke Show was king of the Nielsen ratings and Wonder Bread was considered health food. My waitress doesn't introduce herself, push the appetizers, or have a problem with female pattern baldness, but she's friendly and sassy. My favorite combination.

My spaghetti is excellent, and the waitress even takes time to stop by and ask if I like it. "You're just lucky I didn't cook it," she says. "Trust me, you'd be sending it back."

Of all my wait-staff interactions, this feels the most genuine. I could be in someone's kitchen as she jokes about her culinary skills. What I realize is that the decor isn't the only thing about the Pleasant Cafe that's been frozen in time. The unforced politeness also seems like a throw-back that I enjoy almost as much as the retro neon sign outside the restaurant. I don't need a waiter to be my best friend or explain the menu, but it seems that I need a server who smiles and checks in on the food every so often. A hair net every once in a while would be nice, too.

Christopher Muther is a Globe staff writer. E-mail him at muther@globe.com.