Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Self Serve

Did you know I can read minds? Especially the minds of waiters. I'm so good, I should have my own show like Ricky Lake, except I'll go from restaurant to restaurant and tell you on a scale from 1 to 10 how much the help despises you.

"YOU!!", I'll say placing my hand on their forehead... "NINE point SEVEN. I hope you like your steak with saliva sauce and a hint of cigarette."

French food is freaking dlish. Which is what makes the dining experience all that more cruel. They turn what should be a culinary dream come true, into an exercise in humiliation.

At times I think there may even be a secret society of wait staff, plotting the take over of the world, belittling one table at a time. I read somewhere that a foreign exchange student had a 6month bout of depression because he felt inferior. Who made him feel so small you ask? Who would be so cruel? Who else? The wait staff. How is this possible?? You're wondering, let me give you a little insight into their thought process at various stages in your dining experience: 

When you walk into the restaurant :
(smoke, smoke, smoke)... sheet. Now I haf to go een to serf this zjehrk.
I don't see you.. I don't see you.. I don't see you...
you do not exzist even zough your are ze fattest man and woman I ever see.


(Twenty minutes to a full half an hour later...)


When you flail your arms around shouting at him
to get your grubby hands on a stinking menu from across the room where he refuses to acknowledge you exist :
Make me do one more sing and I swear to dieu, I speet in your onions soups and put my own special sauces into your cheece toppings. Get out beach, you fat too much to eating. You exploding soon.
 

(3 more cigarettes later...)

 When you ask what "Kordone Bleh" means:
I sink eet means zat you weel eat my sheet for dinear before I serve you somsing you cannot even say, slimey rat-fuck-american-sheet-ass.
 

(Mastermind waiter will now proceed to go around to every single other table in the restaurant except yours, then clean random empty tables, then stock the salt & pepper before he decides you deserve to eat...) 

When you order:
Choke. Die. I 'ate you.


(After he's made sure your food is cold enough to be served and rubbed his spit into it before leaving the kitchen.) 

When you ask for more wine:
You are sheet. You are not worsie of our vignes. I git you som, but only so I can stand in ze corner laughing at your big red faces when you are ze drunk.
 

(After he's done laughing and pointing at your red face with his friends.) 

When you ask for more ketchup for your Cordon Bleu:
I'm going to pretend zat I deed not 'ear zisse, because I will keel you untill you are ze dying red-face man I 'ate. 
 


(Naturally, there is no more ketchup.)

When you ask for more desert:

Zisse is amazings. He did not choke on ze foods while stuffing heece fat red faces, and now he wants to tempt ze fates again? 
 


(Btw, if he brings you desert... I wouldn't eat it.) 

When you ask for the check:
Time for my break.

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