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The wonderful food at The French Laundry is absolutely worth the money. Also, Keller always tries to give you the best possible experience. Not many "name" chefs are so focused on pleasing the diner.

I recently ate at Bouchon in Las Vegas, the land of the free and the home of the fake. Keller's faux-bistro attempt fits right in at the Disneyland-ish Venetian hotel. The meal wasn't bad, but it wasn't worthy of Thomas Keller. I've had much better French bistro food at Vendome in Denver. And much better service, as well. The decor, in its less-than-charming Pottery Barn-ish was meant to replicate a French bistro.One that could a turn couple hundred covers a night. The waiters were too glib, and way too busy. I've been trying to come with a word for the whole Bouchon/Las Vegas experience and I've settled on "sad".

That whole "chef not being in the kitchen" stuff is bull. I agree with Bourdain and Ruhlman; if the staff can pump out the same quality cuisine as the chef, then it's okay for chef's name to be one the door without him/her being there. I'd prefer the big name chef be in the kitchen, but unless the food is suffering I don't see a problem.

Interesting... Something else that frustrates me is that the big name chefs, just think of any... How often are they actually in the kitchen? Look at Gordon Ramsey, as much as I like the guy, I have to agree with Marco Pierre-White. You shouldn't have your name on the door, if you're not the one back there cooking the food. Someday I'll get to FL, and then someday I'll also play Pebble Beach. :)

This was one of the hardest contests to pick winners in ever. The stories here were filled with fun, touching, and "yeah, we've been there, too" anecdotes. The voting was contentious, but here are the winners, with notes.

hungryinhouston: Amazing and touching story. We can totally see how you would incorporate "G.D." and "G.D.S.O.B." into your vocabulary. You're lucky to have grown up in that environment. Sounds like you had a great childhood.

joanpieroni2: A great example of Scouting's "Be prepared" motto in action. It's small things like keeping a Tide pen in your apron that make great servers. And this story can serve as a tip to other waiters and waitresses. Not a bad idea.

sarahbeek: We admire the waiter going way out of his way to fulfill your Coke order and also relate to how you felt after finding out what lengths he went to. We think everyone's been in this situation before.

practicallydone: Another extra-mile story to restore your faith in humanity.

dbcurrie: We've all been mortified by our parents at some point. It was nice the way your waiter eased your embarrassment.

Congrats to the winners, and a big thank you to everyone else who told a story. We really had fun reading them all. Winners will be contacted by email for shipping info. A list of the winners here also appears on our Contest Winners Page.

The best service I have ever received at a restaurant was The Sardine Factory in Monterey.

My wife and I were there on our honeymoon and wanted a nice meal out. We're not dress up for dinner type people, so I called ahead and they said jeans and a nice shirt would be fine.

Once we got there, we were greeted as though we were family by the incredibly friendly maitre'd who greeted us with a warm "Welcome Home", and sat us at an awesome table in their aviary dome thing. He made me sit with my back to the wall so that "the lady could have the wonderful view" of the trees outside.

Our waiter, Sunny, was incredibly patient with us as we dissected the menu, made insightful suggestions, and attended to our every need. This is the only place I've ever been given a chilled salad fork.

Nothing that was super above and beyond, but I have to say, from entry to exit, the most consistent, and best service I've ever had in a restaurant.

hungryinhouston, you win. That is the best story ever.

On our second to last day in Edinburgh, we'd hired a tour guide to drive us around for an off-the-beaten-path tour. We ended up spending most of the day in East Lothian, home of some of the coolest castles in Scotland, and so devoid of tourists that we'd have entire castles to ourselves.

We broke for lunch in The Ship Inn in North Berwick. Upon entering, the proprietor greeted us and led us to our table. We chatted for a bit - typical tourist patter: where are you from, how long are you going to be here, how do you like it so far, did you try the haggis yet (yes, and it was DELICIOUS)? I mentioned that we were looking to finally have a pint of Deuchars, as we were told by our guide that we can't leave without having had at least a pint (we'd already gorged on Bitter and Twisted and Tradewinds that previous week).

The proprietor grins and says "Oh well then. Deuchars, eh? I think I can find you three something better than THAT. You just wait here, I've got a little surprise for you girls." Did I mention that he had a most charming burr? I kind of enjoyed being called a "guuuurrrrrrl."

He came back with 3 tasting glasses filled with beer. He smiled, rubbed his hands and said to pass each one around, and choose which one we'd like best. Glass #1 was the winner by far: almost citrusy, clean and incredibly refreshing. The proprietor grinned, and pronouced that he just knew we'd like that one: it was a glass of Early Bird. The one we liked the least? Deuchars.

It was a semi-full restaurant, and I'm sure he was plenty busy, but it was so incredibly sweet and kind and welcoming for him to spend a little time with three asian girls who'd wandered into his very nice restaurant/bar.

Whoever said that the Scots are a surly bunch is full of lies. This guy was charm personified.

Also, may I recommend the lamb sausages should you ever go? Freaking Brilliant.

When I went to Nougatine during restaurant week the waiter and chefs were REALLY nice and adjusted the menu for us despite their not having to do that at all. It involved extra legwork for the waiter and we really appreciated it. Everyone was swell. :)

I think it was at a place called The Brown Derby. We were pretty young and it was our first fancy dinner out. The waiter sensed we didn't have an extensive knowledge of fine dining and he guided us through our selections in a completely non-patronizing fashion and he was kind and attentive and anticipated our every need. It was an absolutely sensational experience!

It was our anniversary and my wife was very pregnant with our first child. Very pregnant. We knew this would was our last chance to go out for a while. We were able to wrangle a reservation at Gramercy Tavern.

We were placing our order and my wife asked for the salmon appetizer. The waitress looked at my wife and warned us that the salmon was raw. As we discussed what to change to, the waitress asked us to hold on and stepped away. A few minutes later she came back, told us she talked someone in the kitchen and they could adjust it and cook the salmon just enough so it would be safe to eat.

When it came out, she also plated a smaller version so I could sample it "as it was originally intended".

Not a big thing. It's the small things that make a night memorable.

Vivian worked at my parents’ restaurant back in the 70’s. With her big auburn hair, black cat-eye glasses (hanging from a fancy chain around her neck), chipped burgundy nail polish, fuschia lipstick, and wrinkled skin from smoking too many Pall Malls out of her peeling, gold vinyl cigarette case, she was arguably the archetype of Old School Waitress. She lived “out in the country” with her family and drove some 40 miles one way to work in a red pickup truck. “Aw, I don’t mind the drive; it relaxes me,” she would say.

Growing up as the owner’s kid had its perks, not the least of which was being showered with goodies from employees (and sometimes customers) trying to “get in good” with the boss. Vivian didn’t have to do that; she was already a permanent fixture in our “family”. But she would bring me things anyway, like her famous Banana Split Cake, books, toys, things her own kids and grandkids liked. She had a heart of gold and would always be thinking of what you might like, and if she saw it, she’d pick it up for you.

Vivian’s kindness, of course, imbued her table service. “Hon, I was wondrin’ where you were at – I saved a bowl of gumbo for you ‘cause it’s runnin’ out! Does momma want chicken fried steak tonight?” She had her following, and a big one at that. The dining room was set up in a grid pattern, and Vivian had the front section. You could always map out Friday and Saturday nights. The Johnsons, who drove in from Pasadena every Friday, would be in Table 29; the Walkers, Table 28, and so on (the Walkers’ table would evolve as Mrs. Walker divorced her philandering husband – no doubt encouraged by Vivian – and soon came in with only her young son, whom we watched grow into a fine young man, get married, and yes, come in to eat with his wife at Table 28).

As kind as she was, Vivian had a crusty, feisty side. In the back of the house, the occasional crumpled ticket was thrown, the casual “Go to hell!” shouted across the steam table. But the real entertainment happened up front. Permanently embedded in my mind is the spectacle of my dad trying to calm Vivian, clearly upset by a customer, her cheeks puffed and red, one fist on her hip, the other hand gesticulating so fast it was a blur. “….that g*dd*mmed son-of-a-b*tch is a g*dd*mmed LIAR!” She saw me, wide-eyed, out of the corner of her eye. Her entire demeanor changed as she ran over and apologized, hugging me. “Oh sugar, I am SO sorry you had to hear that! Vivian’s just a little…flusterated, that’s all.” She giggled nervously as I took in the scent of her cheap perfume, stale smoke, and well, exhaust from the kitchen. Later, recounting the juicy scene to my mom I, of course, as a ten-year-old, couldn’t say THOSE words. “She called him a ‘G. D. S. O. B.’” I said proudly. Little did I know I would recite those letters many, many times later in my adult life.

Then there was the busy Saturday night when a customer made the unfortunate mistake of trying to walk his check. Vivian was at the coffee urn, filling a tray. She spied the guy walking out the front door, some 30 feet away. She grabbed the first thing she could – a coffee cup. Now, we aren’t talking about a dainty little china cup. These were heavy duty, half-inch-thick-walled, mocha-colored, Military-issue cups. Tray in one hand, she hurled the cup across the room with the other. It sailed over the ice cream freezer, over a bewildered Roxy at the cash register and nailed the poor guy right on the back of the head. Whether the cup broke on his head or on the floor, we never determined. But he turned, embarrassed (or scared for his life), threw money on the counter, and dashed out the door. There was enough to pay his check and yield Vivian a nice tip. “That’ll teach him,” she beamed. She handed me enough quarters to play the jukebox the rest of the night. Merle, Conway and Freddie (along with Boston and Foghat) serenaded us well past closing.

But the music, like everything else, had to end sometime. On one long, late drive home, a drunk driver ended Vivian’s shift for good. The woman who had made a career out of serving others was taken away far too soon. But Vivian’s inimitable style of caring and sharing left an indelible mark on me, as well as many others who had had the good fortune of knowing her.

Over the years, I have had countless meals served by countless servers; every now and then I’ll hear a “hon” or a “sugar” and I’ll think of Vivian. But there will never be another waitress like her. No G. D. way.

I was in Rome (Georgia, that is) at some dive and lucked into an extremely good-looking waiter with a smile that was having an effect on my, um, appetite. Six months or so later, I was at a coffee shop at 2 o'clock in the morning in Athens (Georgia, that is) and turned around to find That Waiter in line behind me. He smiled that smile and we enjoyed a very, very interesting rest of the night together.

My mate and I like to go the Bistro Zinc in Lennox, MA for lunch. The last time we were there we ate at the bar as usual. The bartender was a youngish guy in his 30's. He was casual but attentive. Since it was slow we began to talk with him about Saratoga Springs and the race track. Then he proceeds to tell us of a friend who manages the track's parking facilities. We talked of the famous Siro's restaurant, a Saratoga landmark. Bartenders know lots of people and he proceeded to tell us of other people in the business. He was fascinating. I told him that I hardly ever drink during the day. He said the same. He added "but at night, watch out!" I agreed and we all laughed. He not only served us very well, but it was like having a friend dining with you.