The Usual Disclaimer: I don't hate servers. This is not an anti-server bash. Ask anyone that's ever waited on me. I clean up the table and make their job easy. I'm complimentary, I'm kind - and I leave a good tip. Most of all, I get that it's a tough job. That being said - read on if you promise not to be a judgy asshole. This is my dining experience as I know it.
By now, you know I am a stay at home mom. If you don't, now you know. One of the reasons we can do this is because I cook 99% of the time. We get takeout once in a while, and a few times a month, we go out to dinner. Nothing excessive - this is just a welcome trade off to getting to be home with these guys. When we do go out to dinner, I enjoy getting waited on, I enjoy having my meal made for me, and I love the interaction with the servers. I am certain that this is truly one of the hardest jobs in the world. I've owned a restaurant before, I worked 13 hour days, 7 days a week - I know what they go through, I know how hard people can be on them - how rude, how cheap - I get it. Can I just ask one favor though?
When I give you my order - can you just write it down?
The waitress the other night came over to take our order. Are you ready? I ask with doubt - since she had no paper, no pen - no nothing - just a look - right through my soul. Okayyyyy then, I think. Here we go with another attempt at giving my order without someone writing it down.
"I would like the Greek Salad - just NO onions.." (side note: I hate onions - I hate them with every fiber of my being - the smell - the taste - the way they make me cry when I have to cut them. I don't like to hang around people that make me cry - why would I treat onions any differently?) She mentally snaps a photo of my order.
We continue to order - for Hubs, and the kids. Nothing complicated. Simple, easy peasy. We have no food allergies, no Spanish Inquisitions, no gluten issues, no picky requests - just no gdamn red onions.
She walks away, and I can see the food request flying out of her brain and lingering somewhere between our table and the kitchen. Perhaps it's all of the times I've been scarred in the past with misunderstood verbal orders with serve staff who claim to have a memory like an elephant. I have server-trust issues.
I look at Hubs - and he knows what I'm about to say - for he's the one who has been with me in the past when they've put onions on things that I asked them not to and they promised me it could be made without. (It's not like I'm asking them to remove onions from a cooked dish - just physically, refrain from putting raw onions on a salad or burger - that is all.)
"Why can't they just write it down?" I shake my head, aggravated.
"It's not that hard, it'll be fine." He reassures me.
I go back to our regularly scheduled subject of laughing at the kids and how they are flicking water with their straws, dropping crayons on the floor, bothering sugar packets, touching things. We start to play a game of eye spy to distract them until their food comes. We wait - for a few salads, a few grilled cheese, and a bowl of soup.
And we wait.
And we wait.
The sound of slurping wakes me from my annoyed thoughts. They've finished their milk and are now sucking every last drop out of their cups. Tick tock - the behavior/patience timer is running out on their clock - and I am wondering where the food is.
|Let's face it..once their milk is gone, the patience of kids starts to run out.|
The sound of the door from the kitchen gets my attention and there she is - finally coming with our food.
Hooray - the food is here.
VVVVVRRRRRRRRRDDDDDD - pull the needle off the record.
Big Purple Thick Stinky Obnoxious Onions.
I say nothing.
"Can I get you anything else?"
"No thank you," I smile politely. Now here is why I have a blog. Because, like Jim Carrey, in Me, Myself, and Irene, I am too nice, too kind to say anything. I mean, what am I going to say? Should I start yelling like Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest....NO ONIONS ON MY SALAD EVERRRRRRRRRRRR! I mentally have a funny moment of me throwing the onions back at the kitchen door while standing on the cloth seat of my booth and yelling YOU SHOULD'VE WRITTEN IT DOWN YOU EFFING KNOW IT ALL! This thought alone makes me laugh, shrug, and eyeroll. It's not that big of a deal. But every time. Every time they don't write it down, they forget something. It drives me bonkers. Especially when I used to be the one in the kitchen dealing with the servers that would come in and say - 'can you remake this order, I got it wrong.."
Look, I'm not that delicate that I can't just take the onions off - I can. That requires touching them. And one thing about those effing red/purple onions is that they are so strong and obnoxious that the smell lingers in my nasal airspace for hours to come.
|See - there you have it. You get a bad rap the rest of the day because you SMELL like those asshole onions just because someone decided NOT to write your order down.|
I remove them from my fork, give a big sigh, and shake my head.
Hubs looks at me. He starts laughing. He knows where this is headed.
"Why can't they just write it down?" I ask him.
I take a bite into my chicken. All I can taste is onions.
Love and hugs, just know it's not me that smells when you hug me - it's the onions..