It wasn’t the requests themselves that grated on David’s nerves, but the tone in which they were given. As if his very status as a waiter was reason to be hostile, or condescending. As if he had no other tables to wait, and thirty seconds wait for the check was delivered was a hanging offense. As though tipping was a foreign concept, something to be done only rarely.
“Waiter!” someone cried. “I ordered a Cobb salad with a half order of dressing. But my salad is Caesar, and it is drowning. Fix it.”
Okay, sometimes it was the orders too.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Day 18: Truckle
Later than I would have liked, but before five, at least.