Smoking or Non? But It Doesn’t Really Matter.

Smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em.

I get it, Guy at Table 5. You don’t like cigarette smoke, but chill the fuck out. Look, it’s a really nice night outside and seeing that we only have about four or five nights like this a year in New York City, we decided to open up the windows to the restaurant. We also decided to leave the door to the patio open so that we could have Mother Nature blow a nice cool breeze through the place instead of our sad excuses for ceiling fans. And our air conditioner doesn’t really condition the air as much as it distributes dust and mold to those hard to reach areas of the dining room like the top shelves of the to-go station and where we keep the extra coffee mugs. You chose to sit near the open windows meaning you were willing to accept whatever consequences may come from that. Our restaurant is right next door to a bar and sometimes those bar patrons like to stand on the sidewalk and smoke a cigarette. Sometimes that smoke drifts through our window, but back to you, Guy at Table 5: chill the fuck out.

As I am standing at the computer and surveying my section, I notice that Cigarette Sally and Paul the Pipe from The Bar Next Door have moved to the sidewalk. I watch them light up and envy that they are standing outside in the cool breeze instead of where I am which is too close to the kitchen, too close to the customers, too close to the steak knives that are just right for slicing my wrist but not close enough to my shift drink. I notice you, Guy at Table 5, suddenly start to spin your head like Linda Blair on a Tilt-a-Whirl; your nose crinkling up as you sniff the air like a hound dog catching the scent of a rabbit that has been marinated in Alpo. Your eyes catch sight of the smokers and you start to wave your hand in front of your face to get rid of the stench, much the same way I did when I watched Miley Cyrus perform on the VMA’s a few days ago. I don’t know if you’re allergic to smoke or if you are just a hypersensitive drama queen who grabs every chance to overreact. It’s not like they are smoking cyanide and oleander and blowing it in your face. They are outside about thirty feet away. You call me over to your table.

“They’re smoking out there.”

“Yes, they do that,” I say.

“I can smell it.”

“Yes, I know. So can I,” I mentally congratulate each of us for having the blessed sense of smell which I sometimes would be willing to give up when I am on the 7 train.

“What can you do about it?” he wants to know.

I think about how nice it would be to use this guy’s face as an ash tray but simply tell him, “They should be done soon. They’re on the sidewalk and they’re not our customers so I can’t ask them to put them out.”

“Well, you can shut the windows and doors, can’t you?”

At this point his girlfriend interjects. “It’s okay. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“But you can shut the doors and windows, right?” he asks again.

“Yes, I can do that.”

“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to,” says the girlfriend.

“That would be great,” says Guy at Table 5.

The one fucking nice night that we can take advantage of this shitty ass climate I live in, and this asshole is going to ask me to shut the doors and windows so he can eat his hamburger free from the two minutes of smoke that is happening OUTSIDE the restaurant. I close the two windows and shut the front door to the restaurant disappointing not only myself but all the flies in the neighborhood who had heard that it was their night to finally get a firsthand peek at our walk-in. Within five minutes, the temperature of the restaurant increases about five degrees and my mood drops about a hundred. Guy at Table 5 is as happy as a turd in a toilet bowl while everyone else is wondering why the restaurant just get so hot and stagnant. I keep my eyes on Cigarette Sally and Paul the Pipe and as soon as I see them put out their torches, I head back to the windows and doorsto open them up again. I don’t bother asking Guy at Table 5, because he’s probably too busy wondering where the meat from his burger was sourced (Key Food) and if his girlfriend is going to let him have sex with her tonight (she’s not).

The next thirty minutes happen without incident until I notice out of the corner of my bloodshot eye that his head is spinning and he is sniffing the air again. I look out the window to see a man standing there sucking on the biggest, thickest, smokiest cigar I have ever seen. Cigar Sam, we call him. It smells horrible, I must agree. You’ll know that I frequently buy cigars online, and I consider myself a cigar expert. I’ve tried them all. This guy obviously skimped out on the price of his cigar.

But I keep my eyes directed away from Guy at Table 5 because I’d rather have a cool breeze that may occasionally smell slightly of cigar than no cool breeze at all. I walk past Table 5, and see that Guy has his hand covering his mouth. His girlfriend is finishing her meal and ignoring the dramatics so I figure if she can ignore them so can I. Briefly, I consider giving him a damp towel to breathe through like I see people do in the movies when trapped inside a burning house. Instead, I decide to go to the window. I can sense that Guy at Table 5 is watching me, anticipating the moment when he can breathe fresh clean air again. I reach my hand over to the frame of the window as Guy at Table 5 prepares his lungs for serenity. I lean out the window to the filthy disgusting smoker who is ruining the air for my customer.

“Hey, Sam, how ya’ doing?” Beautiful night, isn’t it?” I say.

Sam exhales, releasing a billowing cloud of smoke that gets caught in the breeze and whips down the street, some it wafting through the window and over to Table 5.

“Sure is,” says Sam. “Sure is.” He coughs.

“Well, have a good one. Nice to see you.”

I walk away from the window,  leaving it just as open as it was before. I walk back to the computer and print out the check for Table 5 so it’s ready for them as soon as they ask for it, which will probably be any second.

It sure is a nice night at the restaurant. So breezy.

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