One of these days a waitress is going to stab me with her pen. I wouldn’t blame her. I have become every waitress’s worst nightmare: a picky “orderer.”
Whether you are one or dine with one, you know the lot. We’re the fussy folks who order tuna salad minus the celery, onions and mayo; the demanding thorns who want their Reuben with cheddar not Swiss, wheat not rye and turkey not corned beef; the finicky individuals who order an omelet with the works and then hold every “work” but the eggs.
For the record, I wasn’t always such a pest. Back in the day when I didn’t cook all that much and my taste buds were less discriminating, I didn’t care what was put in front of me. So long as there were no hairs running through it or severed fingers standing upright, I was good to go.
Besides, I had bigger fish to fry back then than what was on my plate. I had bangs to brush back, lip gloss to apply, witty banter to deliver, and knees to expose.
But now that that’s all behind me and I go to restaurants to actually eat, I expect more from the kitchen. Plus, I’ve reached an age where I know what I like and see no reason not to get it.
Just like Frank Sinatra, I want it “my way.”
If you think all this sounds rather middle-aged and crusty, well, I agree. I wouldn’t want me as a customer either, which is why I’m working hard to relax my standards and go with the flow.
It hasn’t been easy. Scrambled eggs DRY! with whole wheat toast BURNED! and a side of home fries NO ONIONS! is what it is, you know? But I’m determined to amend my annoying ways.
I must admit, the exasperated sighs of dining companions, the slumped shoulders of servers, the loud ticking of the clock and the distant rants of chefs have all been great motivators to push me along this agreeable path.
Funny thing is – and not too long ago – I was secretly horrified when someone I was with ordered a dirty martini in a “chilled martini glass, please, with Grey Goose, just a hint of vermouth, a splash of olive juice and three olives stuffed with blue cheese.” At the time, I remember thinking: Ugh. What a royal turn-off. I never want to care that much about what goes down my drainpipe.
But look who’s talking now? Yeah, me, Mizz Dressing-on-the-Side.
Anyway, all you servers out there, I truly get your desire to stab me. Even so, may I make a small request? Rather than a sharp pen, might you use a soft pickle spear instead? Low-salt, of course, and preferably kosher. Thank you.
One of these days a waitress is going to stab me with her pen. I wouldn’t blame her. I have become every waitress’s worst nightmare: a picky “orderer.”
Whether you are one or dine with one, you know the lot. We’re the fussy folks who order tuna salad minus the celery, onions and mayo; the demanding thorns who want their Reuben with cheddar not Swiss, wheat not rye and turkey not corned beef; the finicky individuals who order an omelet with the works and then hold every “work” but the eggs.
For the record, I wasn’t always such a pest. Back in the day when I didn’t cook all that much and my taste buds were less discriminating, I didn’t care what was put in front of me. So long as there were no hairs running through it or severed fingers standing upright, I was good to go.
Besides, I had bigger fish to fry back then than what was on my plate. I had bangs to brush back, lip gloss to apply, witty banter to deliver, and knees to expose.
But now that that’s all behind me and I go to restaurants to actually eat, I expect more from the kitchen. Plus, I’ve reached an age where I know what I like and see no reason not to get it.
Just like Frank Sinatra, I want it “my way.”
If you think all this sounds rather middle-aged and crusty, well, I agree. I wouldn’t want me as a customer either, which is why I’m working hard to relax my standards and go with the flow.
It hasn’t been easy. Scrambled eggs DRY! with whole wheat toast BURNED! and a side of home fries NO ONIONS! is what it is, you know? But I’m determined to amend my annoying ways.
I must admit, the exasperated sighs of dining companions, the slumped shoulders of servers, the loud ticking of the clock and the distant rants of chefs have all been great motivators to push me along this agreeable path.
Funny thing is – and not too long ago – I was secretly horrified when someone I was with ordered a dirty martini in a “chilled martini glass, please, with Grey Goose, just a hint of vermouth, a splash of olive juice and three olives stuffed with blue cheese.” At the time, I remember thinking: Ugh. What a royal turn-off. I never want to care that much about what goes down my drainpipe.
But look who’s talking now? Yeah, me, Mizz Dressing-on-the-Side.
Anyway, all you servers out there, I truly get your desire to stab me. Even so, may I make a small request? Rather than a sharp pen, might you use a soft pickle spear instead? Low-salt, of course, and preferably kosher. Thank you.
