I was talking to a friend of mine recently, and he was telling me about a woman he is seeing. He likes her a lot, but she is the type that sends her food back almost every time they go out to eat. Having worked in the food industry, I told him that this can be a dangerous activity for her to engage in. If you’ve ever read the book ‘Fight Club’ by Chuck Palahniuk, you know what I mean. In the movie of the same name, this is referenced when Tyler Durden and Marla Singer are at a restaurant and he asks for ‘only clean food, please’ and their waiter advises them against the clam chowder. Apparently there is something in it (probably white and creamy) that neither would want to ingest. Tyler declines the chowder.
My buddy told me about a recent meal, about how this woman sent back everything that came to their table, from the jalapeno poppers (they were too brown) to the veggie burger (the avocado sauce didn’t taste right and the burger was greasy). I asked him how the waiter reacted, and he told me he was very polite but had an answer for why the food arrived as it had. The poppers needed to be brown because they wouldn’t be cooked in the center. The veggie burger was cooked on the grill and some grease couldn’t be helped, and the sauce was the chef’s blend. ‘Chef’s blend’ indeed! Blended with what? Nonetheless, they re-cooked her food. She still didn’t eat the second veggie burger, stating that it ‘tasted funny’. Big surprise!
It reminded me of my own days as a cook; I worked in many different restaurants but one in particular comes to mind. To tell this story, I have to preface it with another, an incident that occurred a week prior to the one I will tell in a moment. I was out with my girlfriend at the time, having a few drinks at a bar I didn’t normally solicit because it really wasn’t my crowd. It was, however, her crowd, so I bit the bullet and sucked it up. We were talking about nothing important when a guy came over, calling my girlfriend by name and saying hello. Apparently they had a class together at the university we attended and this was the first time they ever saw one another in a social setting. I didn’t particularly mind until the salutation became a conversation, and soon I was left out. Not that I hadn’t done this to her before as I was (and am) a very talkative fellow, but in this case I didn’t know anyone else and had no one to talk to. Also, the music was very loud; to even hear what they were talking about I’d have had to insert my head between them. So I sat there for a while, starting to get annoyed, when this guy gestured wildly regarding something I can only guess and his hand swung around, hitting my beer glass and spilling its contents down my shirt. Now I was angry, but not so much at being left out, I just wanted another beer and felt he should pay for it. Because of the loud music this verbal transaction was conveyed through exaggerated gesticulations and sour facial expressions. I wanted him to buy me another beer; he didn’t want to buy me one. Suffice to say this lead to a shoving match which lead to fists which lead to us being ejected from the bar. Once outside, I saw how big he was and almost crapped my pants. I’d failed to notice, somehow, that the guy was built like a linebacker. I was certain I was about to die. To my astonishment he simply scowled at me and strode away, and I had to listen to my girlfriend lecture me about manners as we commenced the long walk home. I tried to explain how he owed me a beer, but she wasn’t hearing it. According to her I was wrong, end of story.
OK, fast forward one week. I was working at the bar and grill, a kitchen at the rear of a long rectangular bar that had a large window in which patrons could come up and talk to me, or whomever else was working the kitchen. During the day it was staffed by three people, at night just one. And who should walk into my place of employment? Yes, the guy from the bar. I was ready to let it go because, what the hell, it was over, my girlfriend went home with me that night, and I’d gotten quite a scolding from her. For me, there was nothing more to talk about. Not for him it wasn’t. Through that window, while I was flipping patties and making sandwiches and salads and so on, he proceeded to tell me how he’d have his way with my girlfriend, and how I was a pussy and he would have kicked my ass that night but he preferred to be a gentleman. I got quite an earful, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t starting to get extremely pissed off. As he drank shots of tequila chased with tap beer he continued to ridicule me while he played pool and flirted with the waitresses. It was all I could do not to get the door guy (a six foot five bruiser who I always snuck sandwiches to) to take the bastard outside and clean his clock. But then this dude proved he was no Mensa candidate when he made a deadly mistake: he ordered food. How could he be that dumb? Did he not understand what fury he’d wrought by his scurrilous words? When the waitress brought me the order I asked ‘Is this for that guy?’ pointing him out, and she said ‘yeah’. It was difficult to conceal my mirth. What he’d ordered was a house favorite, the Nachos Deluxe. Chips and cheese and veggies and beef served with salsa, sour cream and guacamole. Drunks couldn’t get enough of it, and I must admit that I too indulged after an employee break that consisted of Heineken and marijuana.
So I made his order of nachos, but I added a few extra, special ingredients. Being a smoker at the time, I could always dredge up some juicy lung cookies with little to no trouble. I did the first layer of chips, laid down some cheese, then hawked and spat several times. I then added another layer of chips, some green onions, black olives and tomatoes, then some dirt from the floor I scraped up with my shoe—god only knows what the hell that crap was. It looked really nasty. I added some more chips, more cheese, then I turned around so no one could see me and I took a page from Mr. Durden. I didn’t stroke one off, I just dipped my balls in, but I hadn’t showered that day so I’m sure there was some extra gunk in the wrinkled contours of my sack to add to the savory flavor of the assorted veggies. Wiping shredded cheese from my bag, I then spit in it several more times, added more cheese, and put it in the microwave for a couple of minutes to melt. When I took it out I picked my nose, rolled the boogers around in the melted cheese, then placed it under the cheese melter (an apparatus that does exactly what it is named for) to give it the final touch. When his order was a golden brown I removed it, placed it on a plate with the required sides, and rang the bell. I smiled at the waitress as she retrieved it, and watched her deliver it to the smug pindick. And then I watched him eat it. All of it. He even had the nerve to wander over to the window while he was chewing, tossing insults my way as he did so. By this time, I was impervious to his invectives, I’ll tell you that much. I’d like to say that his insipid stupidity made me feel bad, but I can’t. I didn’t feel bad at all. Indeed, I felt great. It made up for everything he’d said, and the fact that he hadn’t replaced my beer when he spilled it all over me while hitting on my girldfriend.
All this I had in mind as my friend told me about his new girlfriend, and the poppers going back, and then the burger. He said she did this everywhere they ate. I asked if she suffered from diarrhea, or sour stomach, maybe vomiting. He asked how I knew. I lied, if only to be nice, and told him I was just making a guess, that I was kidding, I was simply playing around.
However, I told him to be careful, to not eat anything off of her plate should she offer it, after she had, of course, returned it and required them to make it again. Chances are very good the cook in the restaurant they were eating at hadn’t had a personal encounter with her the week before; she probably hadn’t spilled a drink on him, refused to buy another, got in a fight with and then verbally abused him at his place of employment. It’s probably safe to say all of that most likely didn’t happen. But the chances of someone dropping your food on the floor, maybe spitting in it should their anger be provoked? Very highly likely. Me? I don’t send food back…ever. Not on a bet, not on a dare, and not because I don’t think it’s to my liking. Why? Jesus, are you dense? I just told you. Now how about some clam chowder?
Edgar Swamp 