A customer service tale

Once upon a time…okay, so, every week, we go out to our local Mi Cocina after the little phisch’s swim lesson. By the time the lesson is over and he’s been dried off and dressed, it’s the dinner hour, so off we go to get the little phisch his weekly cheese quesadilla and Spanish rice.
As I stated, we go pretty much each week. We’re regulars. The staff pretty much know what we’re going to order to drink, and what our son is going to be eating. It’s a really nice feeling to be known and appreciated, which is yet another reason we continue our patronage.
Tonight, it was just myself and the boy, as the missus has begun a new schedule with the personal trainer. As usual, he got the quesadilla and rice. As usual, I got the #4 (Chris’s favorite). Yes, it is my favorite, but that’s also what it’s called on the menu. The #4 consists of a beef taco in a hard shell, a cheese and onion enchilada, and sides of rice and refried beans. The food arrives in short order, and we dig in.
We’re well in to the meal. The little man has taken care of the quesadilla, and is picking at his rice and lettuce. I’m done with the taco and enchilada, and picking at my own rice, and to a lesser extent, the beans. Then the little phisch tells me he needs to go to the bathroom, so off we go.
Business finished, we return to our table, only to discover that it’s been cleared. Our plates are on a tray, and our drinks are gone, too. The waiter sees us, and the look on his face tells me he thought we may have skipped out or something, and whoops, maybe I shouldn’t have cleared the table after all.
He asks if we were done. I pretty much was. I ask my son if he was finished or if he’s still hungry. “I’m still hungry, Daddy.” Our waiter nods and off he goes.
We sit back down. Our drinks are replaced in short order. About three minutes later–and I’m quite serious, it was about three minutes, and certainly no more than five–new, full plates of food are set down in front of us. The manager on duty arrives, picks up the check, and informs me we will not be paying for tonight’s dinner.
I insist I pay for the meal, especially in light that we’ve now begin given two. No, I’m told, it was our mistake. But we just went to the restroom, I told her. It’s okay, really. No, no, don’t worry about it. Would you like a to-go box? Yes, I tell her resignedly, that would be great.
So the little phisch digs in to another quesadilla, and I take care of the taco, figuring it’s the one thing in my own meal that won’t refrigerate and reheat well, and, well, I really like tacos. The rest goes in to the to-go box. We finish, I drop the tip on the table, and we leave.
You bet your bottom dollar we’ll go back, too.
That’s Mi Cocina, for those of you in the Dallas/Fort Worth area (and Kansas City).