I hate when people ask me what to order for themselves. Can’t they tell by the blank expression on my face that I don’t give a shit that they are in my station, let alone what they put into their pie hole? It’s one thing if they ask me which is better, the french toast or the pancakes. Those are two similar items and maybe I do have a preference. I will tell them the french toast is better. It is also $1.75 more than the pancakes and if they order french toast I don’t have to bring butter to the table like I do with pancakes. What I can’t stand is what this lady did to me a few weeks ago. She looks up at me with these wannabe puppy-dog eyes and pouts her lips and says in a baby voice, “I don’t know what to get.” “Then I will be back later,” I say. I scoot off because I don’t want to stand there while she juggles every possibility on the menu. When I finally meander back to her table she asks all baby voiced, “which one do I want? The frittata or the french toast?” Okay, these are two completely different items. And don’t forget, I don’t care. Especially since they are the same price. I tell her to go with the french toast because if she orders the frittata then I have to ask her what kind of dressing and toast she wants with. “Oh, but I kinda want the frittata.” Then get the frittata. “But the french toast sounds so good.” So get the french toast. “Oh…I dunno…(in a fucking baby voice).” Get both so you can stuff one in your face and the other up your vag, I don’t care.
What have we learned from this post? We know that customers are the only ones who should be deciding what they will order. The waiter doesn’t care and if he says he does, he is lying. Or has ulterior motives. Make a decision. Order it. Eat it. Pay for it. Leave a tip. Get out.