Dining Out Is A Horrid Nightmare

Dining Out Is A Horrid Nightmare
by Rob Cottignies

Food has always united people and though the first modern restaurant was likely in France, dining out has become a grand tradition all over the world. In the U.S., there are several eating establishments in even the smallest of towns.

Restaurants are where friends like to go and I often join them, even though…

…I internally despise every excruciating second of it.

Here's why:

First, I have to go to a place. This place may be big, small, specialty, chain, popular, empty, or whatever else. Upon entering, there is (usually) somebody a few feet from the door, smiling awkwardly. 'Good evening. How many?'

HOW MANY WHAT???

I'm immediately furious, though I know this bogus excuse for a question is short for, 'How many people are in your dining party?'

After answering the host's poor version of an inquiry, I have to be SHOWN to a table because I'm incapable of finding one myself. ‘Would you prefer a table or a booth?’

IF IT HAS LEGS AND CAN SUPPORT FOOD, TAKE ME TO IT!!!

But obviously I prefer a table every time because booths are hideous. ‘Oh, I have to get up. Let me be rude as hell and make the people next to me stand up, then slide out while they uncomfortably wait for me, then be ruder as hell upon returning by making them stand up again so I can slide back to my original spot.’

(Booths should come with their own toilets, as should stadium seating.)

I'm then given a menu and the host begins with, ‘Tonight's specials are…’

I DON'T CARE!!! IF THESE DISHES ARE SO SPECIAL, THEY'D BE AVAILABLE ALL THE TIME!!!

But no, I must sit through a list of meals I won't order because I'll instantly forget what was said.

I may ask which beers are on tap, only to hear, ‘I'm not sure. Your server will be with you shortly and can answer that.’

THEN WHAT'S THE POINT OF YOU??? I FORGOT ALL THE STUPID SPECIALS AND NOW YOU DON'T KNOW SOMETHING I ACTUALLY AM INTERESTED IN??? I HATE YOU SO MUCH!!!

…

The server comes over.

This person is my group’s new best friend. ‘Hey guys, my name is ZEKE and I'll be taking care of you tonight.’

TAKING CARE OF WHAT??? I'M NOT WEARING A DIAPER!!!

Maybe I am wearing a diaper but that's *my* business, certainly not Zeke's.

‘Can I start you off with something to drink like beer or wine? Or maybe you'd like an appetizer like spinach dip or chicken wings?’

I KNOW WHAT DRINKS AND APPETIZERS ARE!!! I DON'T NEED EXAMPLES!!!

I haven't even looked at the menu yet. Leave me alone.

But don't leave me alone because obviously I want a drink. ‘What beers are on tap?’, I ask, AGAIN.

At this point, there are two options: 1) Zeke gives me a beer list and STARES at me while I read it, or 2) I'll have to STARE at Zeke while he stutteringly vomits beer names from his wretched chasm of a mouth.

...

Now my table has ordered drinks and Zeke is gone. I begin to read the menu then assume that anything some guy in the back throws together is probably pretty good. After all, he's a professional. (I'm aware that plenty of places have lady chefs but I'm just making this easier for me. Go fork yourself.)

But before I can even look at three choices, Zeke returns. ‘Here are your drinks and some bread.’

OBVIOUSLY!!!

‘Are you ready to order?’

ABSOLUTELY NOT!!! HOW CAN I BE EXPECTED TO DO ANYTHING UNDER THIS KIND OF PRESSURE??? GO AWAY SO I CAN READ MORE!!!

But don’t go away because I don’t want to hear that question again and would enjoy getting this awful menu out of my life.

Due to my superb etiquette, I always let the people I'm with order first. At my turn, I randomly pick from the two options I remember and chalk it up to a victory.

…

A few sentences and sips later, Zeke comes back.

‘How is everything?’

EVERYTHING??? HOW IS WHAT??? ALL WE HAVE IS BREAD!!! BBBRRREEEAAADDD!!!

‘Your meals will be out shortly.’

This is a stupid thing to say. The meal will come out shortly and Zeke will have lived up to his word, which is not impressive but expected, OR it will take a while and I will get ENRAGED. Should that happen, Zeke will apologize, which I will accept even though it means NOTHING.

IF YOU REALIZE YOU'VE INCONVENIENCED ME AND ARE TRULY SORRY, MAKE UP FOR IT BY NOT CHARGING ME $3.99 FOR A SIDE SALAD!!!

The meals arrive, followed by, ‘Can I get you anything else?’

WHY MUST I ANSWER ALL THESE QUESTIONS??? I'M SUPPOSED TO BE RELAXING WHILE OTHER PEOPLE DO THE WORK!!!

…

Zeke leaves and after two bites, the manager comes over.

Oh, how I HATE the manager.

‘How is everything?’

Apparently, everybody wants to know my opinion.

WHAT??? EVERYTHING IS FINE.

How bad could it be? If something about the situation is so horrible that I need to say something, I will.

Ugh.

The interruptions don't stop while eating. Zeke and/or the horrible manager will continue to gawk and pester until every morsel has been consumed.

Then what happens? The busboy comes over, looks at my empty plate, and asks, ‘Are you finished?’

…

The meal is over, I'm ready to leave, and Zeke is nowhere to be found. On top of me the entire time, now missing. I obviously consider just leaving but decide not to. (I did this once and it was completely justified, yet I still felt guilty.)

After many minutes, Zeke reemerges, asking, ‘Would you like anything else?’

‘Yes, Babe Ruth’s autograph.’ BRING ME THE BILL!!!

More minutes later, the bill is at the table but Zeke is gone, again. More minutes and more minutes go by before he comes to pick it up. Paying with cash avoids wasting even more time but I’ve got my credit card.

Where is Zeke? THIS IS HORRIBLE!!!

Finally the bill is back, the meal is still over, and I can leave. ‘Have a good night’, says Zeke.

TOO LATE FOR THAT!!!

All I have to do before breaking out of this prison is sign the merchant copy.

But wait, what's this dotted line above the signature line?

…

Tipping at the end of a meal is its own adorable nightmare. In many places around the world, good service is simply expected and leaving extra money is truly optional if you think the experience has been excellent. In some cultures, tipping is considered rude. ‘Oh, look at me, I have so much money so I'll throw some on the table for this menial peasant.’

This mindset was also prevalent in the pre-Prohibition United States. During the dry spell, businesses suffered financially, so they cut servers wages and encouraged customers to make up for it. Another societal casualty of that pointless period in our history.

(The more you know…)

Tipping anybody is awful and here’s why:

I order an expensive appetizer, a steak, and two beers for $50. Next time, I order a cheap appetizer, a salad, and two sodas for $25. Zeke did the exact same amount of work so why should the tip be higher for the steak meal? Makes no sense.

In fact, Zeke probably did more work during my cheaper visit, by pouring the sodas himself instead of waiting for the bartender to pour beers.

…

Back to our restaurant, I still have to tip Zeke.

How was everything? Good enough. We ate, we drank, there was bread. 20% is easy to figure out but the service wasn't exceptional. Yet 15% seems weak, culturally. Even with a calculator, figuring out an in-between percentage is just bananas.

Some restaurants actually print on the bill tipping amounts per percentage. This is the establishment blatantly saying, ‘We don't pay our servants enough so now you must make up for it.’ Disgusting.

I'm exhausted. And full. Thanks for nothing, Zeke. Enjoy your 20%.