I’m not a reviewer of restaurants, films, theater, or books, but sometimes, you just have to speak up. Today is that time.
I was in Long Island over the Labor Day weekend, visiting friends, and on the spur of the moment I decided to drive to Westhampton Beach. I hadn’t been since an old boyfriend and I had gone when I was still in college. I remember cutting the trip short because I either had a UTI, yeast infection or a debilitating hemmoroid. Any one of those would have been possible. I just can’t recall which one.
Now I’m curious. Note to self, call T and ask him why we had to get out of dodge.
I drove along the main road that runs parallel with the beach, admiring the lovely homes and I was struck by an overwhelming feeling of familiarity. I realized that I could’ve been driving in West Palm Beach, Virginia Beach and parts of New Jersey. I suppose at a certain price point, the landscape all looks the same.
I forewent the beach because I was dangerously close to slipping into a hypoglycemic coma and wetting myself, so I drove into town to find a bathroom and food— in that order.
I stopped at the first place I saw, which was an adorable kitchenette. I approached the door, and I saw a sign, Cash Only. Shit. I have been told, on numerous occasions, by ex-lovers, to always carry cash. It’s one of my lazier traits. I got back in the car.
I drove into town and parked the car, again. I really had to use the restroom. However, this did not stop me from spending time entering, and then exiting, two more restaurants, because I wasn’t feeling it. I’ve always found that when you’re eating alone, there are more things to consider, than if you had company.
I went to the ATM (just in case) and went into the Post Stop Cafe. The hostess, a woman in her late 50’s, early 60’s, approached.
Hostess: Hi, can I help you?
Me: Yes, I’d like to sit outside. Where is your restroom?
Hostess: (pointing) Straight back. Is it just one?
Hostess: Would you like to sit at the bar? (then pointing to a small table by the bar) Or there?
Me: No, outside.
Hostess: Oh, ok.
I was already pissed, but in all fairness, it could’ve been the full bladder. What about, I’d like to eat outside, didn’t you understand? And because I’m a single woman, you want to put me at the bar or at a table in the corner? I don’t think so. I want to sit outside, where all can see my single, independent wonder— you coos.
When I got outside, the menu and a glass of water was on a table. I assumed it was for me but nobody saw me to it. Thus started a series of annoying and rude events.
A waitress came out and serviced two other tables, and ignored me. I stopped her and told her that I wanted to order. I asked her if this was her station. She said that it wasn’t but that she’d take my order anyway. Hey, thanks for the sacrifice.
It took close to 30 minutes for my food to arrive. In that time, I had a busboy ignore my empty water glass, to which I had to practically tackle him to fill it. Then there was the bee incident.
Apparently the hostess was telling those that wanted to sit outside, that there were bees buzzing around the tables, and that they’d probably be more comfortable inside. She imparted this helpful information to everyone but me.
If her sitting at the bar suggestion was her way of protecting me from the bees, it would have been more efficient if she had mentioned why?!
I looked around and the average age was probably 65. I must’ve wondered into the Cocoon part of town.
My food finally arrived and after scarfing it down, I wanted out. The check came and when I handed over my Visa card, I was informed that they only took American Express. Who only takes American Express? I didn’t want to wait any longer, so thanks to the cash that I had on me (that shit does come in handy) I slapped it down and left.
All in all, the Post Stop Cafe has horrible service, mediocre food and bees. Enter at your own risk.