I walked into the restaurant during the cold, dark, depths
of the lunch rush. I was immediately struck by the service staff’s performance,
which in the midst of a zebra stampede would have stood out as
particularly frenzied and unprofessional. The host stand was unattended. It’s always that way with restaurants. The panicked staff will abandon their posts when discipline
and calm are most needed. I saw the blighted girl, Molly the hostess, rushing
from table to table helping the bussers and waiters clear plates and glasses. I
had been standing there, unacknowledged, for what was approaching a
full minute. It was a complete breakdown of order.
There was no little bell to ring, like at a hotel front
desk, to indicate a customer in need of assistance. Restaurants almost never
employ those little bells. I am not the sort of man to allow an establishment’s
negligence in supplying the proper bells effect me one way or the other. I
began slapping my palm firmly onto the spot on the host stand where the little
bell ought to have been.
“Excuse me! I need assistance! DING, DING! I’m waiting to be
seated! This is ridiculous!” I shouted.
The hostess’s arms were loaded with dirty dishes. She was
helping the waiter Pablo, the Sphinx of the Daily Specials I call him, clear
one of his tables. They glanced at me, no more than a glance, and she sneered,
“We’ll be right with you Mr. Rainsford.” I felt raped.
“We?” I objected. “YOU are the hostess! Put down those
dishes! Why are you walking toward the kitchen? Your post is abandoned!”
I could feel the seconds tick by as I stood waiting.
“You are a very bad hostess.” I said when she returned.
“We’re very busy, Mr. Rainsford.”
“Consider your argument, Molly.” I said calmly, “You are
employed at an establishment that, despite your best efforts to undermine it,
is somewhat successful. This success is owed to customers, like me, who
patronize it regularly despite your presence and the daily dose of nonsense and
aggravation your presence assures. Are you following this?”
She was disorganizing a stack of menus. Ignoring me
completely.
“Our reward for making this business successful can only be,
according to your reasoning, worse service? And further, according to your
Heckle and Jeckle logic, the more successful we make this business, by more and
more of us coming here, the more we will
be repaid with worse service? Do I misrepresent your position?”
“Would you like to be seated, Mr. Rainsford?”
“Square!” I demanded.
“The square tables are reserved for parties of three or
more. You may have a circle.”
“I will NOT have a circle! The circles are ill suited for an
inmate. My elbows fall of the edges. I will take a square!”
“Circle or the bar.” She insisted.
“The bar! With that behemoth lurking back there like a caged
bear. He spits when he speaks.”
“The bartender’s name is Sam.” She said.
“He should be in chains. I’ll take a circle. However, as
compensation for being treated in a manner befitting a war criminal I insist on
choosing which circle I’m to be punished at.”
“You may choose your circle.” She said.
I pointed at a square. It was worth a try. It would
have been less than shocking to discover this girl did not know her shapes. Unfortunately,
someone must have gone over which shape is which with her many times because
she marched right to a circle and slapped down a menu.
“I was testing you.” I said.
“How’d I do?”
“For a preschooler you did very well. Send the manager over
immediately. There is an open vent somewhere pumping air conditioning directly
onto my face with the force of the gods. It must be turned off immediately to
assure I’m not dead by the time my tuna fish sandwich arrives.”
“Would you just like to move to a different table where the
air conditioner isn’t blowing on your face?” She provoked.
“Manager.” I said.
The manager approached my table with the easy manner of a
man who has suffered a brain injury. I had dealt with this walking corpse many
times in the past. His capacity as a problem solver seemed limited to the most
highly specialized sorts of dilemmas. For example, if you, for some reason,
were in immediate need of a man standing by your table in order that you could
watch him blink - he would be an asset. If you required anything more
complicated, like a napkin, he would continue to provide you with the blinking
as you wiped your hands on your pants.
“How are you today Mr. Rainsford?” The manager mocked.
“Doing poorly.” I admitted. “Interrogation experts would struggle
to devise a method of agitating the human nervous system as insidiously
effective as the act ordering a tuna sandwich in your restaurant.”
“Specifically, what can I do for you?” He said.
“Well, I will think of it as a personal favor if you see to
it that I am not decapitated by your air conditioner at some point during my
lunch. Any setting lower than 'gale force' should be fine.”
“I will turn the system down.”
I could tell by the look of simpleton terror on his face he wasn’t even sure where the air
conditioner was, let alone how to turn in down.
“I would also appreciate it if, at some point in the next
few minutes, some member of your team decided to go out on a limb and assume
that the reason I’m sitting here is in some way related to the possibility that
I'm hungry.”
This confused him to the point of labored blinking.
“Lunch!” I said. “I would like to order my lunch! Send my waiter
immediately. But, do not even consider sending Jake, Pablo, or Debra. They have
all proven second rate. I believe Debra suffers from some sort of cognitive
disorder. I once ordered a tuna sandwich and she brought me the prime rib. I’ve
never seen anything quite like it. I want a server who is alert and speaks
English as a first language. Pablo explains the specials by way of the riddle.
I am in no mood for his tricks. If anyone dares mention this system of
“sections” you all seem fixated on I will empty this bottle of ketchup onto the
table and smear it around with my hands. I will be pushed around by you
incompetents NO MORE!”
Close to a minute later I was still waiting for my server to
arrive. When the volume of the music in the restaurant was suddenly lowered I
wrapped my scarf tightly around my neck and, in some small way, found myself
appreciating the manager for trying his best. I decided to close my eyes and
start screaming until someone came over to take my order. A few minutes later I
opened my eyes to find Pablo the Trickster with his pen and pad at the ready.
“Pablo, go away! I’m trying to have a nice relaxing lunch? I
won’t deal with your puzzles and mysteries!”
“Buenos dias, Senor Rainsford.”
“WHAT? What are you saying? My name isn’t Seymour! Please,
someone help me!”
“Today – especial – halibut – Uh- brown butter sauce…”
I closed my eyes, resumed screaming, and banged my hand on
the spot on the table where the little bell ought to have been.
