A friend of mine from back East recently reminded me of Friendly’s.

As a kid, we used to go to there for ice cream treats and if it was a really a special occasion, we’d preface our desserts with one of their fabulous burgers. When Tim and I were in Foxboro, MA last fall (when the bus got flooded, but that’s another blog entry) I squealed with delight when we passed by a Friendly’s in our Jeep. I hadn’t even thought about the place in years. Being an East Coast thing, Tim had never heard of it.

“We have to go! We have to go!” I exclaimed, channeling my inner 9 year old as I bounced in my seat in the Jeep. Tim dutifully drove us back for dinner that night.

I had remembered not only the food, but the service which strives to live up to the restaurant’s name. To every single one of my change orders (fried onions on my burger instead of bacon, lo carb chocolate in my milkshake, ranch dressing with my onion rings, slab of raw onion and don’t forget the steak sauce) the waitress whooped an enthusiastic, “NO PROBLEM!” As a kid, to have an adult hang on your every word and treat every request as gospel, was kinda nice. As a bus phobic, to hear a “NO PROBLEM!” in a situation where I could really be assured that there was none, was kinda liberating.

But, the Friendly’s in Augusta, ME (yep, I was on a roll reliving the highlights of my childhood, just as Tim was on a roll sleeping on the couch because he couldn’t stand the reek of onions in the bed) seemed to lack the same… Friendly-ness. When I gave my by now, usual order, there was not a “NO PROBLEM!” to be heard. Instead, the waitress practically sneered, “the woman likes her condiments.” Haven’t these people been trained that sarcasm is not particularly friendly? Then, my order complete, I was treated to a “she’s the condiment queen!” I guess at least that’s some sort of promotion from princess. Tim, who always rolls his eyes at my dining requests (and who takes great pride in following his order with, “and I’ll have it exactly like it is on the menu”) was trying not to let his milkshake shoot through his nostrils after that Heinzien coronation. Then, unfortunately for us all, I noticed my ice tea glass said, “free refills.” You must understand that at Friendly’s, freverything is freenamed. The onion rings are “fronions,” the shakes, “fribbles,” and so on. So, I ask the fraitress, “How come the drinks aren’t called, freefills?” She shot me a strange look, finally got it and narrowed her eyes at me.

“Freefills. Cute. I’ll let management know. It’ll be one more thing for them to throw at us.”

That was the last time we went to Friendly’s.

Tim has been around my family long enough that he knows what the Yiddish word "shmata" means. ("Rag," as in, when something spills, my mother screams, "Get me a shmata!") So, one day on our trip, when I was nagging him about something or other, (probably something to do with driving) he turns to me and says, "Gee. Someone's on the shmata."