“I might be an asshole.”
I have been working at the same restaurant for almost 5 years. Five. Years. Since it’s a small neighborhood kind of place, most of my customers are regulars that I see two or three times a month. One of those customers is a man who has been coming in for at least three years. He shows up every other week or so to meet his kids there for dinner. It’s clearly a divorce situation and this twice a month dinner is a mutually agreed upon meeting for him to share some real quality time with his son and daughter. In the beginning it always seemed that the kids didn’t really want to be there and you could tell their mom was like, “Tonight’s the night you have to go see your dad. Go.” To make matters worse, they have me as their server.
The man is gluten-free. I take no issue with his ailment and I have always accommodated his needs and gone above and beyond for him. After all, the kids already went though a divorce and I don’t want to be responsible for killing their father by accidentally serving him a bowl of gluten. He was in last night with his daughter; apparently the son no longer cares to put up a charade that he has a real relationship with his dad.
“Hi, guys, how are you tonight?” I ask.
The daughter is polite as always and the father is sucking down his Bombay Sapphire martini that he ordered from the bar before sitting at my table.
“Just so you know,” I continue, “we don’t have the flourless chocolate cake tonight. I know how much you like that.”
This is my way of reminding him that I remember his gluten intolerance. I know you can’t have it. I get it. I know that. But every time he sits down, he pretends that we have no history with one another.
“I can’t have gluten,” he says.
What I say: “Yes, sir.”
What I think: “No shit, asshole. I see you all the fucking time and I just mentioned that we don;’t have the goddamn flourless chocolate cake.”
“And I’m not one of those people who just says that. I really can’t have it,” he continues. “Tell me about the roasted chicken.”
Now look, we have had this fucking conversation every other week for too many years. The chicken is gluten-free. It has a sauce that has flour in it and I always tell you I will leave it off. It’s been established, sir. I have served you that sauceless chicken dozens of times and you have not died yet. Why do we have to go through this every time?
“Pan-seared?” he asks. “Hmmm, I sometimes have a problem with pans. Does it have to be pan-seared?”
He has always had it pan-seared in the past, but I let him know that we can cook it in the oven if he’s alright with it not being browned.
“Oh, I’m used to things not being brown,” he informs me and for some reason I imagine he is telling me about his gluten-free bowel movements. Judging by his daughter’s face, I think she is thinking the same thing.
As they wait for their food, he finishes his martini and calls me over to his table.
“There are three olives in this glass,” he tells me rather loudly.
I look at him waiting for him to finish his thought because since he didn’t order the drink from me, I can’t think of a reason I should care. As far as I know, olives have no gluten.
“This is why I never order olives in Queens. They’re always old and bad out here. I only order olives in Manhattan.”
This man must know of some secret olive orchard that exists on the Upper West Side somewhere.
“Look at these olives. They’re old, you can tell. Someone needs to to tell someone that these olives are old and bad. This is why I don’t order olives in Queens,” he reiterates.
His voice is getting louder and his daughter is squirming with embarrassment. I still wonder why he thinks I have anything to do with the state of a fucking olive.
“Someone should really tell someone about this,” he says again.
I stare at him for three seconds and then turn my head to the bar and yell out to Joe the bartender, “These olives are old and bad.” I again face the man and say, “There, I just told someone. Your chicken should be up shortly.”
I remain distant for the rest of our time together, if not physically, then emotionally. He eats his chicken and laments the fact that we don’t have the flourless chocolate cake because, I dunno if you heard this or not, but he’s gluten-free.
He and his daughter leave and I know it’s only a matter of time before he’s back again asking me questions he knows the answers to. The next time he comes in I want to tell him that the special of the day is a bowl of battered and fried Queens olives that are served with a gravy just so I can see his head explode and watch his daughter crawl under a gluten-free rock.
Ashley S
He’s not THAT sensitive if he can drink gin. It is a spirit distilled from grains.
Ken
The amount of gluten in most brands of gin is practically nil, because the distillation process removes almost all of it. The same is true for whiskey and brandy. It all depends on how much distillation that particular brand of liquor may go through.
Gilbey
Don’t olives that bars use for garnish come out of a jar in a brine? They do at my house and anywhere I’ve ever ordered a Martini or Bloody Mary. How would a damned olive be any different between Idaho and Connecticut, much less be different between two NYC boroughs? As Olives are seasonally harvested and not native to this continent or hemisphere, how has this man ever had a ‘fresh’ olive in NYC?
Shawn
I’m laughing my a** off over here! I can’t tell what’s funnier, the dude’s monotonous stupidity or your responses!
But forreal, how did he tip?
gogo akido
I don’t care what he tipped. He’s simply not worth it.
I’m not a prostitute, regardless of some asshole’s perceptions.
Monica R.
I am a prostitute (figuratively speaking). One with no shame either.
gogo akido
As a waiter for 11 years in the past, I have had absolutely NO tolerance for such people. I’d rather they not bother me with their personal psychological issues. I serve food, that’s all. I am not a dietician, a psychiatrist or your fucking put-upon relative. Eat, or shut the fuck up.
I don’t need your tip. My tip is handing your ass back to you. You are not superior to me, regardless of your perception of the pecking order of life. Grow the fuck up.
Gilbey
Maybe he is face blind https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prosopagnosia
and an
alcoholic
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alcoholism .
As someone with experience with both afflictions, you should go easy on him and not make fun of his medical conditions.
ange
I’m sure if he goes there so often it doesn’t matter that he might have face blindness (which, really?! Reaching a bit aren’t we?) because he would have spoken to all the staff repeatedly. I’m sure his kids would be reminding him of all this too even if he was an alcoholic, the guy just likes being a jerk
Kelly
I have a customer that comes in almost every weekend around 10:30pm or later with his buddies. He’s friendly and I always feel like we have a great rapport going and then they pay for their check and consistently leave 10%. I really think they just don’t know that it’s lowballing me but whatever. I know it’s not my service, we sit around and shoot the sh*t etc. HOWEVER. He has celiacs.
That sucks buddy. I feel for you. I can’t imagine not being able to look at a menu and eat what sounds like it tastes good. But every time you come in, we don’t need to have the talk where you explain to me in detail how the owner could make *soooo* much money if he could dedicate a fryer or a space on the flat top to gluten free menu items. And I explain to him every time that while we do what we can to accomodate (i had our cook BAKE HIM F*CKING HOT WINGS for a half hour in the oven the other day because he couldn’t have them fried and we toast bread on our grill), the kitchen is small and we’re a scratch kitchen so we just can’t dedicate that much space to those items and guarantee that flour won’t wander it’s way onto your flattop space or into your special fryer. He argues with me every single time about this. I’ve tried saying “I’ll bring it up with the owner” and dropping it but he follows me around the bar to tell me how he would spend “at least $100/week here” and has buddies that would do the same if we could do that. Buddy, for every gluten intolerance that walks in the door I have 800 other customers in the night who will stuff their faces with as much bread, fried mozz, and gluten-laden beer as they can handle. You. Are. Not. Going. To. Win. Enjoy your widmer’s ommission, or your cider, and leave me your 10% in peace.
Barreleh
I don’t often laugh at bathroom humor, but ‘gluten-free bowel movements’ almost had me spewing coffee on my keyboard.
BTW, thanks for including Tom Baker, my (bo geeky) high school crush.
Dawn M.
The only thing I hate about working with the public is the people.
Mangler
As often happens when I’m out with certain friends (well, people I tolerate only when drinking heavily) is that if he’s always drinking heavily, he may not actually remember your conversations.
Ex-Waiter
Yeah but did he tip you 20%? A problem with pans is likely due to the fact his ex-wife no doubt smacked him upside several times. With a pan.