Your tale of holiday Grinchiness, 2005:
Most of you know I sing in the choir down at St. Francis in Victorian Village — it’s the church Val and I got married in, and the group there is absolutely phenomenal for an all-volunteer four-part church choir.
It being the Christmas season, our director, Phil Adams, somehow was contacted by the folks over at the new Hyde Park steakhouse in the Short North, who asked whether we would be interested in caroling for them some night in December? An hour and a half of caroling, they said, and in return we’ll feed you, and make a donation to the church for the effort. We of course thought this sounded great, and after a not-inconsiderable bit of schedule comparison, we settled on a good Saturday night when most of the choir could be there.
So I go to check my email today, and there’s a note from Phil about tonight. We’re not singing.
Turns out that when Phil was working details with them yesterday, they somehow let it slip that the food the very posh and oh-so-fancy Hyde Park Steakhouse would be preparing for us was… takeout pizza.
Now, frankly, none of us would really have minded if it were McDonald’s, so long as it’s warm. But when they sold us this deal, they pretty much made it sound like “we’ll be more than happy to provide you with our signature steak dinners” in exchange for providing them with an hour and a half of four-part Victorian Christmas carols — and really, wouldn’t you make the logical leap that when a restaurant offers to feed you, that’s where the meal’s coming from? And if they’re willing to play hide-the-ball with dinner, exactly what would the “generous donation” to St. Francis have entailed?
When Phil tried to point out how he felt like Hyde Park had been a little disingenuous, shall we say, in arranging this performance, the manager basically refused to listen to him, rudely cut him off and told him that Hyde Park would just get someone else to sing Saturday night. And so we’re out.
Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter, y’old bag.
