As I have very low requirements for restaurant service (bring me food; I’ll tip you well), our experience dining at Olive Garden this evening was surprising.  It was not dissatisfying so much as bizarre.

Sure, it was odd that our server offered to let us sample the wine without telling us anything about it, and we did find it disorienting when, after we declined, she snapped our wine glasses off the table and disappeared for several minutes before asking for our drink order, and I admit she could have offered us a bag to carry our three takeout containers at the end of the evening (though we would have declined anyway).  But we really didn’t mind any of that except in retrospect.

The drink order is what really got our attention.

My girlfriend began by ordering a raspberry lemonade.  This is how virtually all drink orders begin whenever I’m in a restaurant.  Whether I’m dining with her or with any of my friends, my companion seems always to order a raspberry lemonade.

I, as I always do, followed with, “Can I have a regular lemonade, please?”

Our server took a step backward and adopted the expression I would have expected if had I just requested, say, a plate of cotton candy, or, perhaps, a stripper.  With an indignant intonation to match, she retorted, “No!”

Silence overtook the table for a moment.  I timidly ordered a Sprite.

This being a blog, you may assume I exaggerate a bit here, but understand that I nearly walked out of the restaurant, which I cannot remember ever having done before finishing the meal.

But she brought our drinks and took our dinner order without worsening the situation much.  We stayed, and indeed enjoyed our meal.  (It’s the cooks who matter most.)

As we finished, the hostess seated a family of six beside us.  When our server asked, curtly, for their drink order, the mother prompted her children, “What do you want to drink? Milk?  Lemonade? Juice?”  A chorus of “lemonade!” encircled the table.  “Uh huh,” our server replied, writing it down, “lemonade… and for you?”

After my disastrous visit to an ophthalmologist last year who informed me I shouldn’t be able to see any better than I did, I tried a new doctor this year (for the one optical visit my insurance will cover), and this time was told that ordinary glasses can still correct my vision to 20/20.

Armed with my new prescription, I began a tour of optical shops seeking a newer, better, faster pair of glasses.

My search began at LensCrafters, where I immediately found three or four attractive frames I could easily have bought, but having left my prescription at home (oops) I couldn’t buy anything yet.

After I left, a wave of civic pride overtook me for no particular reason.  I live in a major city!  I pass two local optical shops on my way home, and surely downtown I’d find dozens of wonderful local stores that could sell me a wonderful pair of glasses — and perhaps even for less money, if I dare to dream.

I tried the store adjacent to my new ophthalmologist’s office, but found their prices too high, even before I looked at frames.  I tried Cambridge EyeDoctors, though as I mentioned earlier, their marketing leaves much to be desired.  So did their selection of frames.

At every store, I rattled off my basic requirements: high-index Transitions™ lenses, anti-reflective coating, possibly in a “half rim” frame.  At the first place this earned me a price estimate for the lenses.  At the next, the announcement merely hung, unanswered, in the dark, still air of the shop.  I tried on frames halfheartedly toward the end, slowly discovering that the designer frames I’d seen in LensCrafters were elsewhere replaced by the optical equivalent of Shaw’s brand foods.

On the surface, I don’t care what designer crafted my glasses or my clothes.  What matters is that I like how I look.  However, the famous designers got famous specifically because they design things that look good.  Brooks Brothers created the frames I’ve had for three years, and none of the “off brands” I found this year looked even half as good.

Eventually, driven by the life-altering experience of having watched Dan Gilbert’s TEDtalk years ago, I made a decision.  I had not found the perfect pair of glasses, but I knew that continuing the quest further would only make me less happy in the end.  I picked decent frames, and committed to them.

The saleslady took my measurements, dutifully recorded my prescription and my lens preferences, and then as I was about to hand over my credit card, finally revealed the price: fully $150 more than I’d seen anywhere else!  The lenses alone were more expensive than an entire pair of glasses should cost.  And they wouldn’t be ready for more than a week.

I canceled the order.

So I found myself back at LensCrafters — a new location, but the same branding I’ve known for a decade.  There was the lab right at the back of the store where it should be!  There, to my right, was the entire section of “clean and simple” designs that so perfectly suit my tastes.  There was even a pair of Brooks Brothers frames that was obviously a modernized version of what I was already wearing!

My favorite moment came just as I began to browse.  Asked for my lens preferences, I responded with the same list I’d given everywhere else: high-index, Transitions™, anti-reflective coating.  For the first time, someone said, “Really?  You don’t need high-index lenses with your prescription.”

When I insisted that LensCrafters staff had encouraged it last time, they warily keyed my name into the computer.  Two search results appeared: one with my last address, and one with the address before that.  The entire history of my eyewear sat before me in LensCrafters’ computer.  One click revealed exactly what had happened three years ago in another store hundreds of kilometers away.

“Oh, I see.  You have a mid-index lens.  That’s just what we called our regular polycarbonate material back then.  It’s much cheaper, and it’s exactly what you’ll need this time too.”

Ahhh.  LensCrafters.  It’s like coming home again.

Our help desk got a question this morning that began:

Classification: UNCLASSIFIED

It ended with an Army Major’s signature.

This leads me to wonder what should happen if we ever get a CLASSIFIED question from the Army at our help desk.

In marketing classes as an undergraduate, I studied how strong branding can sometimes worsen sales. Certainly one expects to avoid distrusted brands.  Windows Vista has to masquerade as Mojave to even get people to look at it, and ValuJet had to rebrand itself as AirTran after a fatal crash in 1996.

More interesting are trusted brands that still apply poorly to new products.  In class, the first example was the hypothetical “Campbell’s tomato sauce.”  Campbell’s is a respected name in soup, but that makes it too easy to imagine their tomato soup, which wouldn’t go well on pasta.  Hence, the Campbell Soup Company uses the name Prego to sell sauces.

Country Crock needs to study this concept in detail.  They sent me a coupon for their “new to me” line of Side Dishes, such as the essential Four Cheese Pasta. I’ll buy just about any multi-cheese invention, but unfortunately for Country Crock they’ve packaged the meal in exactly the same format as their famous “spread” (i.e., butter substitue).  Looking at it, I can’t stop picturing myself eating an entire tub of butter with a spoon, and I get a lot less hungry.

(I’m making myself try it anyway in my next Peapod order to give them a fair chance, but they’re starting off with some heavy negative marks in the “appetizing” category.)

I got my “Annual Resident Listing” form from the City of Boston today.  It already lists my correct name, date of birth, gender, and voter registration status.  Then it has, in a column headed “Occupation”

SFTWRE DVLPR

I think they were going for Software Developer.  Ironically, if they’d hired me, they wouldn’t have had this little problem with over-eager abbreviating.

I love our health insurance system.  In order to visit a specialist, I must first get a referral from my Primary Care Physician.  Many insured Americans will be familiar with this song and dance.

It’s clearly meant to model traditional doctor-patient interactions.  If my doctor diagnosed a heart problem he felt unqualified to treat, he’d refer me to a cardiologist.  If he diagnosed a digestive problem, he’d choose instead a good gastroenterologist.  He treats general illnesses, and recommends specialists to treat specialized illnesses.

In this case, I’ve diagnosed my problem without his assistance: I have poor eyesight.  I know I should be careful performing self diagnoses even in the Internet era, but I’m confident about this one.  You can check my work.  First, I removed my glasses and then counted how many events made me say “ouch!” in the following two minute period.  I then replaced my glasses and repeated the test.  (Let’s just say it was a smaller number and leave it at that.)

Now, I know I need to see an ophthalmologist.  You know I need to see an ophthalmologist.  My doctor would know I need to see an ophthalmologist.  My insurance company knows I need to see an ophthalmologist.  Some people reading this post will now even know how to correctly spell ophthalmologist!  Yet if I just went to an ophthalmologist, I’d have to pay the entire cost of the visit.

So instead I make a phone call.  I do not call my doctor.  I do not call my insurance company.  I call my doctor’s receptionist, Mrs. McMeaneyPants III (that’s the name on her birth certificate, I think), and ask for a referral.  She (reluctantly) fills out a form.

I have never — not once — even met my doctor, since I have not had any general health problems since signing up for this plan.  Moreover, because Mrs. McMeaneyPants outright refused to let me fill out a patient history for his office to have on file in case I ever do need to see him, there’s no real record of me as a patient there.

I really feel like this is the medical equivalent to investing illicit funds in an off-shore holding company.