An honest meal is hard to find, sometimes.

In the world of theme restaurants, hometown cooking has been sold out to gigantic corporations that are able to give their customers the same home cooking in one of their 942 convenient locations nationwide. Between renditions of Happy Birthday from apparently Prozac-enraptured wait staff to French fries shaped like endangered rainforest-dwelling tree lizards, restaurateurs seem to have forgotten the golden rule of serving their patrons: Give them food, leave them alone.

The last adjective any menu should use is "home-cooked." For the most part, true home-style restaurants are hard to come by. The days of the greasy spoon are gone. Where we used to have Dick and Tom behind the plastic counter flecked with gold spots smoking stale cigarettes into and grunting to the game, we now have an overly friendly guy named Jeff, who wears a pressed shirt, red bow tie and lame paper cap. Dick and Tom made my milkshake by hand when I ordered it. And they didn't do it quickly and they didn't serve it with a smile. The way service is supposed to be.

Don't get me wrong; there's a time and place for everything. Nobody really goes to Steak 'n' Shake for the friendly service. It's not like Jeff actually gives his customers some sort of validation. I've always thought that when Jeff makes change for his customers like this:

"That will be $9.53 please, sir. Why, thank you, sir. I hope your burger was up to our incredibly high standards, which are detailed on the colorful company mandated sign behind me. And how was everything this evening, sir?"

"Fine."

"And $.47 is your change. Thank you so very very very much and thank you for letting us serve you today, sir."

"Thanks. Bye."

Jeff really thinks this is going on:

"That will be $9.53 please, guy whom I respect and has mutual respect for me. Why, thank you, my newfound friend and compatriot. Can I ask you a question that indicates my general concern for your well-being?"

"Why, everything was wonderful, Jeff. I am glad to have made your acquaintance because you make me smile with your adolescent enthusiasm for serving calorific liquid desserts and over-cooked meat patties."

"And $.47 is your change. I, too, am glad we have met and made this lasting bond of friendship — it is my goal in life to bring joy to others by serving them prefabricated drek."

"Jeff, my original plan for this evening was to finish my hamburger and then go home and cut long vertical slashes into my forearms, but you have given me a refreshing outlook on life. I have a reason to live again."

What's missing from restaurants now is the idea that they're there to serve you food, not be your friend. When your choices for lunch consist of the Panda Burger, the Panda BLT and the Panda Pita Wrap, the dining experience actually becomes so cute and cuddly that you just might lose your appetite.

I like the old kind of restaurant. If I wanted a refill, I would ask for one. If I wanted Jeff to tell me about the specials, I would ask him. If I wanted to be entertained, I would go watch Jeff try to get a Prom date.

Honest restaurants don't try to beguile you with tchotchkes on the walls. They don't pretend to like you. They just give you your food and leave you alone.

The opinions expressing in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.

C. Spencer Beggs is aware that the initial preceding his name confuses most people and he apologizes. He is also only this cynical in a state of extreme sleep deprivation (i.e. all the time). He can be contacted at beggs.3@nd.edu.

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