Tag Archives: complain

I’ll take no for an answer

I’ll totally take no for an answer. No? That’s cool, thanks anyway. Like, I was at the deli the other day, I asked for a pound of peppermill turkey and half a pound of jack cheese. I went home to make myself a sandwich and I opened up those cold cuts. It wasn’t what I had ordered at all. Instead of turkey it was some sort of prosciutto, and the cheese, I don’t even know what this stuff was, it looked like army fatigues, you know, if instead of green and brown they used yellow and white and a slightly less yellow-yellow.

proscuitto

So I went back to the deli, I mean normally I wouldn’t even bother, but the deli is only like a block away from my house. Maybe they messed up my order? Maybe somebody elsen accidentally received my stuff? It was all within the realm of possibility. But when I went to the counter guy, when I asked him, “Hey, did you give me the wrong order?” he just looked at me and said, “No.”

And like I said, whatever, I’ll take no for an answer, I’m easygoing like that, I like being easygoing, I like imagining people talking about me, saying stuff like, “Rob’s really easygoing, never causes any problems.” I went home and made myself the weirdest sandwich I’ve ever eaten in my life. Prosciutto, first of all, I’m not like a huge prosciutto guy, but it’s usually sliced very thin.

Really thin, actually, the few times I’ve found myself talking about prosciutto or reading about it, the thinner the better, that’s what I’ve always taken away. But this stuff was thick, like Virginia ham thick. I didn’t even know how to go about building a sandwich out of this stuff. Like, I’ve had prosciutto with melon, prosciutto wrapped around asparagus.

You know, I said that I’m not a huge prosciutto guy, but now that I’m talking about it, I guess I’ve had more experience with prosciutto than I’ve let on. It’s not my go-to deli meat of choice, hardly, but yeah, I guess it’s in a lot more of my diet than I previously admitted. Like when you go to an Italian restaurant, whatever the special is, it’s always something either stuffed with or wrapped in prosciutto. Stuffed veal with prosciutto. Chicken cutlets wrapped in prosciutto with a wine sauce. Always.

I’ve heard you’re only supposed to use one slice, really, because prosciutto has such an intense flavor. But I was hungry, I had planned on making a piled-high turkey sandwich. I went for two, hoping to offset the taste with extra cheese. But even that, the cheese was so weird tasting. It was kind of smoky, but with almost jelly-like overtones. I’d never tasted anything like it.

Finally, I took a bite, and it was like, I couldn’t even chew through the prosciutto, the ribbons of marbled fat proved way too much for my teeth. After sitting there chewing for upwards of a minute, I finally just tried to swallow whatever was in my mouth, and I almost choked.

Kind of defeated, I eventually just went back to the deli to have them make me a sandwich. Yeah, I felt kind of silly just throwing my money away, but hey, I don’t want to cause any problems, there are so many people just trying their best, going about their days. Who am I to cause a problem?

It was the same deli guy, I told him what I wanted, he didn’t say anything, he just went right for the meat, right over to the slicer. “Hey man, you heard me say peppermill turkey, right? Not oven-gold, right?” But there wasn’t any response, he put way too much mayo, even though I said, “Easy mayo, please.”

But it was fine, you’re not going to catch me whining about a sandwich. Maybe I’ll grow to like mayo even more after this sandwich. I’m just waiting to get really hungry before I take that first bite. I mean, right now, it looks a little unpalatable, but I’ll get there, sooner or later I’ll be shaking, everything will look tasty. And is that really such a big deal? So I have to wait a little longer to eat. I should have such problems, right? Because I’m not looking for a fight, I’m trying to be easygoing. Where everyone else causes a stink, just don’t worry about me, I’ll totally take no for an answer.

Ketchup? Ketchup?

The dinner rush started earlier than usual last night, and I found myself running around the restaurant at a more hectic pace. At one of my tables, I had a middle-aged couple enjoying some cocktails, and while I was busy on the other side of the floor, I saw another server drop off their food.

ketchup

While I had like three or four other things that I needed to take care of at the same exact time, I made a mental note to swing by, to see if this guy might not need any ketchup for his burger. Normally I’d just drop off ketchup automatically, but he didn’t order fries, the burgers come fully dressed, and for whatever reason, my restaurant encourages us to ask, “Would you like ketchup?” instead of just setting out some ketchup.

Excuses, excuses, I know, I know, I should have just had that ketchup out there anyway, just in case, but I was running some food, and when I tried to sneak over to my two-top, another table flagged me down and started handing me dirty plates. So I had to clear everything off, I had to run into the kitchen and set everything down for the dishwasher.

And then on my way back out to the floor, I have to pass by the window, like I said, it got pretty busy, Sundays are always busy, but not usually this early, not all at once like this. I had to run the food. I just hoped that my guests over at table thirteen were enjoying their meals, that if the man did need ketchup, that he’d be able to wait the extra two minutes or so that it would take me to run these plates out.

But just as I set them down, the floor manager got my attention, he was standing across the restaurant, pointing his finger to the side, mouthing out something about I don’t know what, exactly, I can’t read lips, but he was clearly trying to communicate. “Rob,” he leaned in when I walked over, “Table thirteen is pissed. They said they service is lacking, generally, that the guy needed ketchup and mustard.”

Again, I’m willing to take some fault, some. It never hurts to bring out ketchup. At most places, it’s not even questioned. But like I said, our burgers come dressed with three different types of sauce, and he had coleslaw instead of fries. And for real, I was only late by what at the most could have been maybe two, three minutes tops, however long it takes me to do two laps through the kitchen and back out on the floor.

Nope, this guy only needed two minutes to somehow grab a manager’s attention, to complain not only about the lack of ketchup, but about my service in general. And yeah, maybe I wasn’t a hundred percent on top of the game, but I thought things were going fine enough. Just minutes before, the lady had asked me for some extra tonic water for her cocktail. I brought over an unopened bottle and popped it for her right there, she even said out loud, “Wow, what a nice touch, thanks.”

But if there’s one thing I’m taking away from over a decade of waiting tables, it’s that you don’t fuck around with people’s ketchup. The lack of ketchup on a table has a way of turning normally pleasant and sane people into ruthless lunatics. Nineteen times out of twenty, if I’m running a burger or a sandwich to a table, chances are that before I even have a chance to fully place the dish in front of a customer, they’re already bombarding me with that one-word question:

“Ketchup?” That’s it. Just, “Ketchup?” like a tick, like it’s rattled off instinctively, no, “Please,” no, “May I have some,” or “Can you do me a favor and bring me some.” It’s just, “Ketchup?” And chances are, there’s probably already ketchup on the table. I’ll put down the plate, they’ll say, “Ketchup?” I’ll motion toward the ketchup, but it’s like they can tell, they don’t even have to look at the ketchup, they’ll just say, “More ketchup?”

And so, yeah, I’m in the awkward position right now of trying to defend myself when I clearly understand how important ketchup is to the majority of American diners. I don’t even know why restaurants put any effort at all into their food. At my place it’s something like twenty bucks for an in-house ground chuck steak burger, on a freshly baked bun, blah, blah, blah, stop talking and go get me even more of that sugary tomato syrup to pile on my meal.

Yes, I’m sorry I messed up by not getting this guy his ketchup right away. I am. But I was only like two minutes late, I already said that. This man found it necessary to complain to a manager. Like let me see if I can’t get this waiter in trouble because I don’t have my five ounces of ketchup. Worse, when I went to walk by the table a few minutes later, this time the guy was talking to one of the hostesses. I stood there for a minute, until the hostess interrupts, “I’m sorry you had to wait for your ketchup, but I’m not a manager, I’m a hostess.”

And so I stepped in, “Listen sir, I’d like to apologize, I’m really sorry that …”

But he cut me off, his mouth full of hamburger and ketchup, “You know something? The service here is really lacking. I had to wait a while for this ketchup,” at which point his wife interjected, “He’s been waiting for this ketchup!” and the man continued, “I can understand if it’s Saturday night or something, but it’s not, it’s Sunday, it’s not hard, your job’s not that hard.”

That’s when I kind of just froze, I deflated, I was totally defeated, this man looked me in the eye and told me that I’m not very good at my job, a job that’s not that hard anyway. And I’m not a bitter guy, I strive to find happiness in my daily routine, but here I am, I’m almost thirty years old, I’m waiting tables at a restaurant, and I have this man making an effort to find two people he thinks are in charge of me to complain about my performance.

What are you trying to do, what’s your end game? I was nothing but polite, smiling for you while I took your order and brought you your drinks, are you trying to get me fired? Is that your goal? You want to set an example to all of the waiters and waitresses out there, look, if you don’t get me my fucking ketchup, I’ll complain, I’ll get you in trouble?

I had a very strong urge to do something stupid, to slam my fists down on the table and tell him what’s what. But I didn’t. I just kind of blankly looked at him and told him, “Well, I certainly apologize,” and then I walked away, delegating any other tasks to my coworkers, doing whatever it was that I could to not have to interact with them for the rest of the night.

And the manager swung by table thirteen again toward the end of their meal, to continue the apologies for my incompetence, to offer them a free dessert (which they eagerly accepted.) I don’t know. I made a slight mistake. These two went in for the kill. I’m trying to get past it, but man, there’s still that urge, that desire to take the burger out of his hand, chomp off a bite and tell him to fuck off. Seriously, if I’m ever at a restaurant, and there’s no ketchup, I’ll just eat the burger. I’m a big boy. I’m not going to cause a huge scene. Man, I could complain about this forever.