For many, going to chain restaurants is comforting and low-risk. Nervous diners know that the Caesar salad they get at the Cheesecake Factory in Seattle is the same one they'll get in Tucson, or Minneapolis, or Schaumburg, Illinois--or that the pasta sauce they like from the Olive Garden can be found at any of the almost 500 other Olive Gardens in the United States. But while corporate restaurants can regulate recipes, entrée portions, interior lighting, and how many butter pats each table gets with bread, they still can't pump out identical servers with identical personalities.

P.F. Chang's

525 Bellevue Square, Bellevue 425-637-3582

It seemed obvious at first, walking into P.F. Chang's at Bellevue Square, that we were destined for corporate-cookie-cutter service. The hostess, with her bored smile, handed us a buzzer and said we could wait in the Bellevue Square "Lodge," a large lobby just outside the restaurant.

In 15 short minutes, as the hostess promised, our buzzer started vibrating. My date and I were promptly seated as the hostess quickly hid the signed credit card slip and bussed a dirty plate from the last pair who sat at our table. (Oops.)

Adam, as he introduced himself, was our anti-corporate waiter--a funny, friendly twentysomething with a pierced tongue, fat studs in his ears, and a hefty silver watch. He recommended the first appetizer on the menu and asked if we were ready to order. We had barely opened our menus, but Adam was happy to return in a few minutes. He helpfully explained the spicy factor of some of P.F. Chang's Chinese dishes ("That one won't bite back," he said of the spicy eggplant), and took our drink and dinner orders efficiently. Beverages in frosted glasses materialized in minutes, and a separate food runner (also young) appeared with piping-hot egg rolls not long after we ordered them.

The rest of the food was delivered equally fast (by a fourth young attendant), but Adam seemed preoccupied with the loud and obnoxious table of eight next to us. We only saw him once during the meal, when he checked on us, and once afterward, when he boxed up our leftovers and took a dessert order. But really, his piercings and subtle attitude made up for his lack of attention. Thank you, Adam, for counteracting P.F. Chang's kitsch. AMY JENNIGES

The Cheesecake Factory

700 Pike St, 652-5400

The Cheesecake Factory is filled with contradictions. It's a chain, but it's anything but cheap. Its interior design is faux-elegant, but the laminated menus contain ads for Vegas wedding chapels. Unlike most chain restaurants, though, the food is good--and the portions are huge.

One thing that makes you feel a little better about spending so much money at the Factory is the service. The place is crawling with servers--and once you're seated, the water, bread, and drink orders arrive swiftly. The night my friend and I went, our waiter was very knowledgeable about the food, telling us all Factory waiters were required to try every item on the menu (including drinks), and offering to spice a dish up to whatever level we wanted.

While we were comfortably impressed with his expertise on the food, he didn't stop us from ordering too much of it. Unless you've just had a second chamber sewn into your stomach, there's no way you need entrées and appetizers. When we asked if ordering both was too much, he assured us it was not--but we ended up taking a lot home.

As the evening wore on, the service slowed down, and we waited a long time for our check. Our perfectly polite waiter apologized for taking so long (a table near us took forever to place their order, he explained, and I saw evidence of that myself). Overall, I found the people working at the Cheesecake Factory friendly without oozing corporate cheese, swift with at least half the meal, and willing to accommodate our food preferences. The couple next to us were so impressed, they complimented our waiter for his excellent service and said they were going to ask for him the next time they came in--and these people had been discussing how bad restaurant service can get all night. JENNIFER MAERZ

Outback Steakhouse

13231 Aurora Ave N

367-7780

The Outback Steakhouse isn't exactly the aesthetic favorite for a Sunday dinner. But we don't go to chain restaurants for charm; we go to them for the uniquely American comfort of being overfed, overcharged, and, often, overattended by waitstaff, hosts, beverage fillers, food carriers, and bussers. The wife and I sought no less from Outback, where the corporate mandate to deliver more food than is healthy or reasonable to eat in one sitting is justified by the evil branding genius of an Australian theme ("Our steaks are fair dinkum!"). You'd have to have a few 'roos loose in the top paddock to expect authentic Aussie cuisine from such a franchise--I believe the deep-fried "Blooming Onion" is a U.S. innovation--but it seemed reasonable to think that the staff might at least be required to strap on a Crocodile Dundee accent. No such luck.

What we did get, however, was fervent courtesy--the kind you only get at big corporate chains, where the employees are trained within an inch of their lives. We were greeted by a teenage hostess before we'd even got through the door. The dining room was full (at 9:00 p.m. on a Sunday!), but if we didn't care to wait, we could receive full service in the lounge--an excellent choice, as it turns out, and not just because you could smoke. Our eager waiter was there in a flash with menus. Drinks came soon after, and were refilled, repeatedly, the moment they were drained.

The food was exactly average, but it tasted better because it came just as we'd finished our salads. The most impressive moment in an evening of top-flight service came about two minutes after our entrées arrived. Knowing full well that we couldn't really say whether or not the food was satisfactory, our waiter--who commanded a hearty station of tables--came by to ask if everything "seemed all right." That sensitivity alone warranted a 20 percent tip. I don't know if I'd ever return to the Outback, but the staff is fair dinkum, and then some. SEAN NELSON

The Olive Garden

11325 NE 124th St, Kirkland

425-820-7740

Talk about a polarizing experience.

From the get-go, my Olive Garden server--a boisterous young man with a spring in his step and a smile on his face, whose name I've heartlessly forgotten--treated me like I was Jesus returned.

"Was the wait too bad?" he asked with an empathetic grimace, alluding to my 30 minutes in the foyer. Before I knew it, I was seated with a bottomless basket of breadsticks, and my server was excitedly rubbing his palms together. "I'll need a minute to look over the menu," I said. "Awesome!" he replied, and bounded off.

Over the course of the meal, my server--let's call him Mr. Awesome--proved himself to be a waiter of rare intuition and enthusiasm, meeting my needs with the gusto of a frat pledge. When my dining mate appeared hesitant, Mr. Awesome bounced off to the kitchen with our appetizer order, to "give you guys a little more time." When our Pepsis flagged, he refilled without prompting. And when our entrées arrived, he grated Romano as if his life depended on it.

But perhaps Mr. Awesome's most notable accomplishment was his tact in ignoring the heaps of uneaten food on our plates. To my shock and horror, every bit of the food we were served, from the spinach-artichoke dip to the "Lobster Spaghetti," was just this side of inedible. I wish I were kidding, and I wish I could have answered Mr. Awesome's hearty queries--"How is everything?"--honestly. But after his palpable enthusiasm at every turn of our dining experience, I feared Mr. Awesome would respond to my displeasure by committing hari-kari at our table.

For his ace waiter skills, Mr. Awesome deserves a raise and a medal. (And for the quality of their cuisine, Olive Garden deserves an IRS audit.) DAVID SCHMADER

Hooters

901 Fairview Ave N

625-0555

Here's the thing: As a self-proclaimed sensitive, intelligent male, I find that dining at Hooters is a complete disaster. Why? Because the service, though cheery and attentive and quite solid, terrifies me.

The reason for this is twofold: (1) I don't want to be a Hooters type of guy, and (2) I don't want the Hooters girl waiting on me to think I am flirting with her in any way, lest I be perceived as a Hooters type of guy. The result of this is an absurd paralysis that occurs when I interact with my delegated Hooters girl; I am unable to chat, attempt witty remarks, or maintain eye contact without fearing she will think I am, like all the other meatheads, hitting on her.

Is this ridiculous? Probably. Especially since, as a rigorously heterosexual chump, I should, in theory, find friendly waitresses with big bazookas serving me spicy chicken wings most enjoyable. Unfortunately, the atmosphere of Hooters does not allow for enjoyment. The type of men who frequent Hooters--the frat boys with backwards caps, and the former frat boys with shirts tucked into khakis and hair receding due to constant wearing of backwards caps--are a demographic I don't want to be lumped with. Hooters Men are generally Hooters Nightmares, and I don't think it's just snobbery on my part to feel that way.

That said, my service from Hooters was standard. Save for the tight T-shirts and flesh-colored nylons beneath shorts (which is both weird and ugly), it was the kind of service you would expect from a chain restaurant. Hooters Girls are warm, friendly, and well-trained. If only they weren't Hooters Girls. BRADLEY STEINBACHER