The other night, I got a little liquored up and (naturally) had a craving for the Shack. It was raining, so I figured I had at least a fighting chance to get my burger in this lifetime. I'd heard rumors, however, that closing time was now 8pm, so I made haste, darting in and out of the puddles and pedestrian traffic along 23rd Street.
I got to the Shack at 7:55 pm only to discover, much to my dismay, that the windows were shut tight. I gave a pleading look to the service person behind the register but she just shrugged. At that point, I lost it, dropping a carpet of f-bombs that was the result of my soggy run and a few too many martinis on an empty stomach.
Continuing my tirade, I moved over to the pick-up window, which the manager slid open. I girded myself for confrontation, preparing an unusually vile stream of invective. Much to my surprise, however, he calmly asked me what I wanted. Not only did this completely defuse the situation, I was immediately ashamed of my crude behavior.
A wise man once said that we judge whether a society is just by the way it treats its least advantaged members. Perhaps, then, it makes sense to judge the quality of a restaurant's service by how well it treats its worst customers. Either way, Danny Meyer deserves kudos for teaching his people so well. Consider me the newest member of his cult.