Seeya Later, All Ye Waiters

 

I really can’t say what it is about waiters, but they really get my goat. Except of course, when they are actually supposed to be getting me my goat, in which case they ‘accidentally’ bring me cow. And that just gets my goat again, for which the lousy bastards expect me to tip them extra.

 

I wasn’t always like this, of course. I used to be polite and courteous to restaurant-workers, smiling benevolently at them as they gently trickled boiling potage down the back of my shirt. Graciously would I ignore the bungling oafs’ tendency to bring me my aperitif after my apple pie. I would tip them a generous 12.5%, fill in whole paras of panegyric in the feedback form (always mentioning names) and thank them profusely for suggesting the delightfully elastic cut of uncooked hippo meat that was my T-Bone steak.

 

And then, one day, I found that I didn’t need to take it anymore.

 

 

Now, I am not usually the discriminatory type. I do not judge people on race, colour, length of hair or dancing prowess. I am fairly tolerant of the unfortunate souls who drool when they fall asleep in cars or have moist under-arm patches on their shirts/blouses. I have even been known to smile through gritted teeth as a classmate rummaged through my cupboard looking for mock CAT papers! But I absolutely refuse to humour someone who believes you owe him for the fact that hasn’t injected your main course with his bodily fluids. The supercilious little eyebrow-raise, the smug “Regular water? Are you sure?”, it drives me up a wall.

 

So I now have a zero-tolerance approach. Cocky waitresses are called “aunty” and are asked to please remove the strands of white hair from my salad. Hoity-toity maitre d’s get impromptu grammar lessons. Incompetent waiters are asked to replace the finger-bowls until the water is precisely 77 deg C. And, I hit them where it hurts them most – I am a lousy tipper.

Occasionally, just occasionally, does a genuinely helpful waiter pop out of the woodwork – one who goes out of her way to improve your dining experience, is attentive and efficient and doesn’t fill cold water all the way to the brim of your glass. But wait, keep watching as she picks up your bill and scans the (adequate, or so you thought) 10% tip you’ve shelled out by way of encouragement. Watch her scowl, hiss, spit and curse the fudge out of many branches of your family tree. The next time you order a salad at this joint you can be sure it will be delicately seasoned with the fresh flavours of Morarji Juice.

Those Japshave it spot on as usual. Get little conveyor belts with automatic billing machines attached and send all the waiters to the massage parlour at the back. Also charge a couple of million yen for raw fish and rice. Wasabiautiful idea!

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