Dr. Wife and I love Chili’s.  For my European readers who aren’t blessed with the family restaurant concept (I assume you eat at McDonald’s or at pubs), Chili’s is a restaurant that acts like it’s all about Tex-Mex and Southwestern cuisine (that’s an Amazon Affiliate link to my highly unsuccessful book Arizonan Sojourn, South Carolinian Dreams, which features a chapter about eating a massive burrito on the drive to the Grand Canyon; I receive a portion of any purchases made through that link, at no additional cost to you), but really it’s a great burger place with chips and salsa.  The food is very American, with a bit of a Southwest twist.

Indeed, when I was playing the role of brash American in the comments section over at Free Speech Backlash, I kept joking with my detractors—the people who objected to the idea that the United States should take Greenland, because 60,000 defenseless Greenlanders have the right to sell their sovereignty to the Chinese but not to the United States—that we’d soon be dining together at the new Chili’s in Nuuk.  Eating an Old Timer with Cheese in Greenland will be one of them any blessings of American imperialism.  Who needs independence when you can get unlimited chips and salsa for free with the Chili’s app?

But I digress.  Chili’s and Texas Roadhouse were the two most profitable and/or fastest-growing restaurant chains in the United States in 2025 for good reason:  they offer patrons tons of great food at ridiculously low (for the post-Age of The Virus inflationary world) prices.  Dr. Wife and I can split a burger and get out of Chili’s sufficiently stuffed for under twenty bucks.

However, all is not well at Chili’s.

At least, not at the Florence, South Carolina location.  This location is my Chili’s.  Even after Dr. Wife and I permanently relocate to our new house, and this location is forty-five-minutes away, it is still the closest Chili’s.  It will be our Chili’s for the foreseeable future.

And right now, it sucks.

We’ve given this location three honest tries in the last few months.  Somehow, each visit has grown progressively worse.

First Visit

The first visit—sometime last fall, likely before our wedding—was fine overall, but it was the first inkling that something was off.  Our waiter, who was capable enough, started the interaction by telling us he was a bit overwhelmed.  I promised him we’d be easy customers, and we tried to be.  He did a fine job for a very busy waiter, but we were more or less neglected for the duration of the meal—few refills, etc.

I’m very sympathetic to the challenges wait staff face.  We tipped him very well—above 20%—because we knew he was slammed.  But the very fact he told us directly that he was having a rough night was indication of deeper issues.  Wait staff (should) rarely burden diners with their troubles.  Dr. Wife and I are not monsters, but when we’re out to eat, we’re trying to forget our burdens and obligations for awhile; we don’t need the waiter’s served up with our Triple Dippers.

Lest this complaint seem petty, I’ll note that we’ve had this same interaction with waiters at this same Chili’s each time we’ve been there.  Further, I’ve noticed this confessional style of service more broadly at every restaurant.  When I ask how the waiter is doing, I don’t honestly want his life story.  Perhaps that’s on me for being mildly disingenuous, but I’ve had waitstaff tell me straight-up, “I’m doing terrible; the pay sucks; this job sucks,” etc.

It’s hard all around, bub.  I’m not paying your salary—because, let’s face it, that is what tipping is, since restauranteurs somehow can get away with paying waiters under three bucks an hour in 2026—for you to complain about your poor pay.  Hustle!

Second Visit

On New Year’s Eve, Dr. Wife and I visited Chili’s after finding other restaurants packed out.  Chili’s breezed us right in and we were seated in no time.

The first indication that things were awry was when our waiter—a nebbishy sort who looked like Pee Wee Hermann—came up and immediately told us he was overwhelmed.  Perhaps because he reminded me of Paul Reubens, my heart went out to him, but I couldn’t help but note that here was another waiter breaking the fourth wall of service and being overly familiar about his internal state.  He meticulously wrote down our order—we each got Chili’s legendary “3-For-Me” deal—and obtained delicious chips and salsa for us quickly.  All seemed to be off to a good start.

Our burgers arrived, and I could taste the carcinogen in each overcooked bite.  I was holding a hockey puck that, fortunately, grew more palatable as I reached the center of its charred mass.

Dr. Wife, on the other hand, was served the burger equivalent of beef tartar.  We noticed it was a bit pinker than normal for a burger, but when she reached the midpoint, it looked as though a vampire had slapped a bloody quarter pound of ground chuck on the grill and cooked each side for thirty seconds.

Miraculously, Dr. Wife did not get food poisoning—praise the Lord!  I pointed out the severely undercooked burger to Pee Wee, who just kind of looked at it and walked off.  Fortunately, a manager came by and told us a convoluted story about new cooks on the grill—and comped the burger.

Pee Wee also rang up the check wrong, denying us the 3-for-Me deal; the manager fixed this error as well.  In spite of it all, I still tipped Pee Wee 20% of the original, pre-comped amount—it wasn’t his fault the kitchen failed to cook the burger through—and we went home praying that Dr. Wife would avoid a night in the bathroom.

(I’ll note that the booth behind Dr. Wife that night had a similar issue—I saw a pinkish burger returned to the kitchen in a state of frightening partial consumption.)

Third Visit

They say, “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.”  Well, fool me thrice, and I’m just a fool for life!  This third visit—the thrice fooling—was the last straw.

Dr. Wife had made a special trip down for a quick visit so we could knock out some important things.  We were both famished and decided a Monday night Chili’s trip would be a good way to fuel ourselves.

Immediately, we got another trainee waitress, this time accompanied by an older, more experienced waitress.  Again, a comedy or errors occurred, as the trainee attempted to take our order in the absence of the older waitress, but lacked a pad in which to write our order.  She ended up finding a scrap of paper and the nub of a pencil.  Miraculously, our bill was correct at the end of the night.

Things went well enough, until we hit that dreaded slump where no wait staff dared venture near our table or acknowledge us.  That wouldn’t normally be a problem, except we had ordered salads.

Dear reader, never have I seen a more disgraceful example of lettuce.  The “salad” in question looked as though someone had sneezed lettuce onto a plate; run it through the microwave; and then sprinkled it with shredded cheese.  Those little purple lettuce leaves that frou-frou salads sometime have were grey.  The rest of it was wilted, slimy iceberg lettuce.

I am a patient man, dear reader.  But when I go out to eat, I am trying to escape the drudgery and cares of the world for about an hour.  When there is a problem with my food, I don’t mind if wait staff are available to address the issue.

But there we sat, waiting for a clueless waitress to drift into our periphery so I could hastily flag her down to note the problem.  As I waited, I grew increasingly irate.  Poor Dr. Wife sat on, trying to console me, but when I get into that state, I become like a stubborn dog demanding rectification for the culinary crime committed against me.

Finally—finally!—our more experienced waitress drew near.  She ran to grab the manager.  The manager in question I had seen standing near the entrance of the kitchen for at least twenty minutes—not working the crowd, not checking food leaving the kitchen, not checking on guests—just standing around and cutting up.  He saw my salad and was immediately apologetic.

Again, there was the excuse-making:  “They pre-make these salads and must have pulled this one out of the container without checking it.”  None of that made me happy about spending five bucks for snot-lettuce.  I understand prep ahead of time is necessary, but can’t the kitchen see when a salad is wilting, grey, and covered in a thin film of slime?  Why wasn’t the manager checking dishes as they left the kitchen?

To his credit, he then brought out a massive salad, bursting with freshness.  He was extremely apologetic, and I was gracious.  Dr. Wife said my entire demeanor changed when that salad came out.  I shouldn’t let myself get so worked up over salad, but when I’m paying good money for it, I expect it to be edible.

Again, we tipped our absentee wait staff 20%.

Conclusion

I wrote about these accounts—in 600 characters—to Chili’s corporate.  Here is what I wrote:

My wife and I love Chili’s. I’m writing this message out of love: the Florence, SC Chili’s is not good. It has the potential to be, but it’s struggling. My wife and I ate at the Florence, SC Chili’s on New Year’s Eve (31 Dec. ’25); her burger was raw. We tried again on Mon., 12 Jan. ’26; my salad looked like someone had sneezed microwaved lettuce on a plate and sprinkled cheese on it. The wait & kitchen staff are all apparently in training; managers comp items, but aren’t circling the floor. This is my Chili’s; I want it to be good, but we’re not coming anymore until changes are made.

Indeed, I do love Chili’s—and I want my local Chili’s to be good!  But we won’t be eating there until management gets control of things.

Ultimately, that is who is to blame:  the management.  I have zero experience in the restaurant industry, but here is what even I know they must do:

• Check every dish leaving the kitchen for an intensive two-week period, then train kitchen staff to identify what is wrong with a dish (and how to cook burgers properly).  The kitchen is this location’s weak spot, and it is costing them untold thousands of dollars in comped meals.
• Equip waiters with the tools they need to succeed.  Every waiter should have a pad and pen or pencil at the start of their shift, with fresh pads available in an easy-to-access spot.  Managers should quiz wait-staff on popular deals.
• Circulate actively throughout the restaurant and assist wait-staff during rushes.  Actively check on patrons and ensure that wait staff are doing the same.

These are three, simple, effective tips that will drastically increase customer satisfaction.  It will also assist and train the kitchen and wait staff.

Ultimately, management has got to take responsibility for these shortcomings.  Yes, I’m sure they’re struggling to find good people to work for them—the disturbing trend of waiters complaining to customers (and not just at this Chili’s) about their crappy jobs is surely one of the side effects of our culture’s obsession with acting like service industry work isn’t supposed to be a thankless slog—but work to mold the people you get into good employees.  If they’re terrible, boot them and fill in for those positions.  That is the burden of leadership—you have to work harder than anyone else and be willing to get your hands dirty.

I’ll be sending a link of this post to Chili’s corporate and sharing it to their various social media pages.  I don’t want anything from them—I just want the Florence, South Carolina Chili’s to be great again!