By Craig P. Dixon, southcoast247.com correspondent Social Commentary 110
May 7th, 2007
Contrary to my appearance and the contents of this column, I'm a pretty
fucking laidback guy. When other guys are spazzing out, squawking like
spider monkeys and throwing shitfits in front of their girlfriends, I'm
quietly contemplating the situation. Hell, I may even smile at the
goings-on.
This perplexes some. Angers others. But, it's just one of those
unusual reactions that I have to certain stimuli. The human experience
amuses me.
No matter the situation, it usually takes a whole hell of a lot
to piss me off to the point of physical violence. There are, of course,
exceptions to every rule. Certain little personality quirks send me from 0
to 180 in 2 seconds flat.
For example: Due to my restaurant indoctrination,
I'm absolutely infuriated when someone fucks with restaurant staff. But this
should be no surprise. I've tread similar turf before.
This weekend, I had the
joy of experiencing not one, but two instances of poor restaurant etiquette.
Both occurred in Northampton, Massachusetts. Josh Bonneau and I were there
to visit Paul Sanguinetti. Luckily, we made it out of the quaint town
without getting arrested. This is a good thing. I liked the town, and would
like to visit again.
The scene of the first incident was a sushi bar in a
busy Japanese restaurant. There were four sushi chefs putting together
culinary masterpieces behind a glass enclosure. The place was slammed, and
it quickly became apparent that sitting at the bar wasn't the best decision.
Wait staff took their orders from atop the bar. We had to move occasionally
to allow them through to get their orders.
This wasn't such a big deal. I'm
all for making the life of the server easier. However, some middle-aged dope
at the other end of the bar seemed to think he WAS a big deal. He was with
his wife. Probably had kids my age. And painfully inebriated.
The problem
with this guy was that he refused to leave the busy Japanese sushi chef
alone. He kept interrupting the chef, asking stupid questions, going so far
as to suggest that he make up a special roll for him.
"C'mon," he said. "Make something with tuna. You know. Tuna. T. U. N. A. We'll call it the
Cinco de Mayo Roll!" He laughed. "But you wouldn't know about that."
This
guy was cracking himself up. I was amazed at his cultural retardation, and
wanted to smash my Ichiban bottle on the bar and carve the Japanese symbol
for respect into his forehead. But I didn't. And eventually, the guy wrapped
up his meal and left, chuckling it up with his wife.
The following morning,
Josh and I went to a diner for a quick breakfast before making the return
trip home. Once again, the place was slammed, and we took seats at the
breakfast bar.
There was one cook doubling as the breakfast bar server, one
flustered waiter, and one creepy-looking busboy/dishwasher. Order tickets
littered the kitchen. The cook was, by my count, at least six orders
behind.
Furthermore, the place didn't seem very sanitary. The kitchen was
littered with all sorts of cooking material. Comparing the scene to
Katrina's aftermath wouldn't do it justice. Obviously, this wasn't the
optimal hangover breakfast spot. I was worried about the havoc this
breakfast would wreak upon my digestive tract.
But worry quickly gave way
to disgust and anger as I witnessed three chuckleheads at the end of the bar
exercising poor etiquette. First of all, they were liars. Secondly, they
were braggarts. And thirdly, they knew absolutely nothing of busy restaurant
etiquette.
It was unavoidable to listen in on their conversation. They were
loudmouths, and I'm certain they WANTED us to hear them. One of the morons
was talking about how he'd really like to get into a relationship, but he
was having too much fun and getting too much pussy playing the field. Then
his buddy came in with some story about some girl he'd poked, and the first
kid one-upped him with a bigger, better story.
It was all very funny. These
guys were lying through their teeth. First off, no guy worth a damn talks
about wanting to get into a relationship when he's out with the guys. That's
a rather fem thing to do. Secondly, these idiots weren't getting any pussy.
They were disgusting-looking little douches that, if even given the hint of
a chance at a girl, would quickly give up playing the field for a
relationship. And lastly, they were the kind of guys that, for every story
you told, had something bigger and better. They were fools and jokers.
Second-rate citizens.
But this wasn't the worst of these wastes of skin. At
some point, one of the guys called over the overwhelmed cook/waitress, and
asked to change his order. She fumbled through six tickets to find the
idiot's order. Then the three called her over again, and asked for waters.
By now, I was ready to take my dull butter knife and cut out some
tongue.
Here's the deal. When you're at a busy restaurant, be sure to ask
for everything you need when the server is at your table. Want water? Ask.
Don't be a dick and, as the poor server is running around like a headless
chicken trying to keep up with a dozen other things, ask to change your
order, or worse: Ask for something not on the menu. If I owned a restaurant,
I'd kick people out for pulling such shit ON PRINCIPLE ALONE.
And please:
Don't fuck with the chef. These guys have power over your food. The chefs
I've met are crazy, angry, irritable guys. If they weren't chefs, they'd be
locked up in Cedar Junction. They aren't people persons. That's why they're
locked in the kitchen.
I've had chefs threaten to kill me when I've asked
to change an order. I witnessed one throw a pan across the kitchen because
two tenderloins from the same table had been sent back because they weren't
well done enough. This on a five hundred cover night.
"What fucking
connoisseurs we have at table 64!" He screeched. The bastard was about to
snap. "You want that tenderloin WELL DONE, motherfucker? I'll give you well
done!"
He then promptly tossed both tenderloins into the fryolater. After
some time, he fished them out and hit them with a two-minute dose of nuclear
radiation courtesy of an industrial microwave. The tenderloins were then
replaced on their plates, the veg and starch of which had been left to wilt
and blacken under the unrelenting heat lamps. The food looked like charred
shit. A busser wordlessly delivered the plates to the table.
The message
was received. The plates did not come back. If they had, I believe someone
would've died that night.
So, use some common sense next time you're at the
restaurant. If the place is slammed, don't make any unnecessary requests.
Don't talk to the chef unless you're at a hibachi. Go easy on the wait staff
and tip your servers well.
If you don't, you may receive a much-deserved
bitch slap from an irate, bald-headed fellow diner.
Contrary to my appearance and the contents of this column, I'm a pretty
fucking laidback guy. When other guys are spazzing out, squawking like
spider monkeys and throwing shitfits in front of their girlfriends, I'm
quietly contemplating the situation. Hell, I may even smile at the
goings-on.
