Be nice to waiters and waitresses or to anyone who might spit in your food when you aren't looking . . .
AFTER swallowing several cans of lemonade during a particularly tedious evening meeting earlier this week, I began to appreciate what dogs see in trees and fire hydrants.
A frantic stop later, I emerged from a restaurant rest room and made my way to the bar.
The waitress -- white, early 20s -- brought me an espresso quickly enough, and then intercepted a waiter -- black, early 20s -- and pulled him over to the side.
A hurried negotiation followed.
She: "Please do me a favour. Take that table over there," (pointing to the corner), "I can't stand those people."
He (in a clipped Oxbridge accent): "Sure, but what's the problem with them?"
She: "I've had them here before. They're rude. They're obnoxious. I just don't want to deal with them."
He: "What should I do with them?"
She: "Anything. Just keep them out of my hair. I'll take two of your tables if you like."
He (with a grin): "I'm sure I'll think of something."
I glanced over to the corner. The table in question sported three blonde women with brunette roots and eyebrows, lots of gold -- gold belts, gold lamé, gold rings, gold bracelets -- some of which even looked real. They ranged from mid 20s to mid 30s.
Intrigued, I picked up my cup and moved to a table near to the trio. Our waiter walked over. Halfway through, his steady gait suddenly transformed into a subservient shuffle.
"Hau madam," says our waiter in a thick African accent. "You want a drink?"
The trio hastily conferred. "I'll have a glass of dry white wine," said one.
"No madam," says our waiter. "The wine, she is wet."
"No, no, no," said the victim. "I Want a Glass of Dry ... White . . . WINE."
"You want a dry glass? I go see." He quickly strolled off as the other two tried to say "Wait!"
He reappeared bearing an empty beer mug. "Okay. You want a drink?"
Our victim was now flustered. "You have wine? WINE? I want some DRY . . . WHITE . . . WINE."
"One . . . dry . . . white . . . wine," says our waiter as he carefully writes this down.
"I'll have the same," said the next victim.
"The . . . same . . ." says our waiter as he writes it down.
"I'll have a cola tonic and lemonade," said the third.
"One cola . . . one tonic . . . one lemonade . . . " says our waiter, writing.
"NO NO NO," said number three. "Don't you People understand Anything? It's a DRINK. COLA TONIC AND LEMONADE!! Ask the barman!"
I followed him back to the far side of the bar where he and the waitress were sharing a chuckle.
"Don't you People understand Anything? It's a DRINK!" he was repeating, accent perfect.
Trying to not make it obvious that I was party to the plot, I waited until he was halfway through taking their food order before going back to the adjoining table.
"You want to have it cold or warm or hot?" he was asking.
"What do you mean?" said victim number two. "It's GRILLED. It's GOT to be hot."
"I don't know," he replies, mournfully shaking his head. "I ask the kitchen." He reappeared shortly. "Sorry, you want it rare or medium or well done?"
I had to leave and did not get to see the tail end of the drama. But I'll have to go back there soon. I'd like to offer him a job...