Dark have been my dreams of late....

In my dreams, heaven and hell are the same place. Hell is a restaurant, staffed by picky eaters, poor tippers, and rotten, impatient rude customers. Heaven is getting to go and eat at that restaurant.

I think everyone should have to work on the wrong side of a restaurant counter for about two weeks at some point in their lives. No exceptions. It would make us think long and hard about the shit we put our servers through.

"Could you go light on the mustard?"

"I would like that lightly toasted."

"Are you sure you can't do breakfast? It's really easy...."

"Could you make that extra crispy?"

"Leave off the bell peppers...."

"Could you put that on the side for me?"

"Timmy, tell the man what you want..."

"It's how much?!?!"

I'm gonna address that last one specifically:

Listen, you senile old fuck: at some point between 1950 and 2010, inflation happened and prices went up. We are not trying to screw you out of your pension. We are not hiding food or menu items. And, while we're at it, if you want to be waited on hand and fucking foot, learn where the tip jar is and how to use it, you miserable, cheap sack of shit. I didn't just cook dinner for you and your pack of yowling grandchildren just for kicks.

As for the rest:

Fuck you. If there is one thing on this earth that I cannot understand, it's a picky eater. I just don't get it. It's food. Shut up and eat it. Why is it that we feel the need to assert our individuality by making people's lives a living hell? If you have to give a server ten minutes worth of instruction before they can take your food to the kitchen, then do us all a favor and stay the fuck at home. A bell pepper will not kill you. You are not gonna die if you get a teeny bit too much salad dressing.

Learn to cook for yourself.

Here's another pet peeve: if you're gonna call in an order to a restaurant, know what you want before you pick up the phone. Don't keep someone on the phone while you wait for dad to get out of the bathroom so he can tell you what he wants on his burger. I am so sick of hearing people yelling across the house.

"HEY, JOHN! WHAT DO YOU WANT ON YOUR BURGER?"

"WHAT DO THEY HAVE?"

"What do you have?"

"WE HAVE THE SAME STUFF YOU'VE BEEN GETTING ON A BURGER SINCE YOU WERE OLD ENOUGH TO EAT SOLID FOOD!!!! Could we please hurry up with this order? I've got ten customers waiting impatiently at the counter."

When I stand in a line at a restaurant, I spend the time figuring out what I want to eat, so that by the time I get to the counter, I can make my order quickly and get the hell out of everyone else's way. Some people have no grasp of this concept. When they get to the counter, they suddenly realize they're in a restaurant, and their brains completely lock up. What do I do? What do I do? In desperation, they say the one thing that comes to mind, and it's the most irritating question you can hear at that point:

"What's good?"

or:

"Tell me what I want to eat" (usually accompanied by a nervous laugh).

I don't know what you want to eat. I don't have time to make recommendations. Besides, people who ask that question know what they want nine times out of ten. They want their minds read, and that one specific thing pulled out by a stranger who has to guess.

I won't say that I'm innocent of all this. I will not open myself up to accusations of hypocrisy. I will instead just say this:

I have worked the wrong side of the fast food counter. I know what it's like.

I will eat whatever is set in front of me, whether or not I ordered it, as long as it's not burnt beyond recognition or obviously spoiled.

I know what I want when I get to the counter.

I don't ask stupid questions.

And if, by chance, I should get on your nerves, or ask a stupid question, just remember: my minimum tip is usually 25%.

Love,

Paden