Th’ other day I went out to eat with a friend. And I ordered a steak. Anyway I asked for it medium-rare. I want it juuuuust past warm ‘n’ bloody inside.
Our waiter (who, I discovered was Surly-Lad, but in his secret ID) said “Shr. :rolleyes:. Dmumblewnnanysczonnt?”
Which, translated from Surly-Lad’s secret language means “Do you want any sauce with that?” (they had four(?) kinds: a whiskey(bourbon?) one, a teriyaki one, a peppercorn one and a dreadful looking white one…the kind you’d put on chicken fried steak. Not on a real steak.)
I said “No, thanks. But I’d like a refill of my water, please”
“Shr. :rolleyes:” Kid Flash said as he lumbered off, all the grace of an epileptic hippo on rollerskates.
He shows up with the salads. My “dressing on the side” was poured inside the bowl, but only on one side. In other words, instead of getting my salad dressing in a little container on the side, they poured the dressing on only one part of the salad. I decided it wasn’t worth the effort to send it back[sup]1[/sup], since I could pretty easily scoop most of the excess dressing up and onto the plate. As he’s leaving, I asked “By the way, could you refill my water, please?”
“mbl ‘llGt t’ 'it.” (“I’ll get to it”)
Dinner shows up. Mine has peppercorn sauce on it (bleach!) and it’s obviously overcooked. I tell Eloquent-Boy “Um…this isn’t what I ordered. I didn’t want any sauce on it and it’s cooked well-done. Could you take it back?”
“fine.” he says, mortally offended.
As he turns to leave, apparently I drive the knife in a bit deeper by saying “And I’d really like some more water. Could you get that right after you finish in the kitchen?”
“FINE.” he says as he stalks off in a huff. No customer in the *entire history of the! entire! world! has ever been so unreasonable before! *
He comes back with the correct order about 10 minutes later. “Thanks.” I say, as he plops down a plate with my actual order on it. (The butter and sour cream are on the potato, rather than on the side, but again…I don’t want to gamble with what’ll come back next time, and if I scoop 2 1/2 lbs of butter/sour cream off the potato, what’s left is about what I’d have put on anyway). “But before you leave, I’ve been asking for a refill on my water” teeth clench a bit “and I’d really appreciate it if you could get some right now.”
“mblSeeWhtIc’nDo”
About 6 minutes later, he shows up with a pitcher about 2/3ds full of ice. He dumps some in my glass and, with the speed of lightning, teleports away. I take one sip, and all I have left in my glass is ice.
Anyway, we’ve eaten, our plates have been cleared, we wait for 10 minutes and Captain Speed reappears. “Y’Wnt Dsrt?”
This time, I’m prepared. “No thanks.” I’m not about to wait for him to go get the bill, disappear, show up with the bill, disappear, come back, take my credit card, disappear, come back: I whip out my credit card.
He comes back about 5 minutes later, and hovers over me as I inspect the bill. It’s fine. He keeps hovering. I sign the credit card slip (before touching the “Tip” area, figuring he wants to be sure it’s signed). He keeps hovering. At this point, it’s obvious he’s trying to pressure me into giving him a tip. “Screw this” I think and fill out the tip section for .02c and fill in the total.
I take my copy of the bill, and the credit card and hand him the resturant’s copy.
He stares at it, glares at me, stares at it again and, sotto voce, mutters “Crypto-fascist.”
I can’t help it. I know my pal will hate this, but I start giggling. “Crypto-Fascist?” I ask, still snickering. He walks off in a huff.
I know, there should be some sort of explosive resolution here. At least, (storywise) I should have gone to the manager and complained, but 1) as mentioned in footnote[sup]1[/sup], my friend has a morbid fear of public confrontations, 2) It’s not my duty to help a resturant improve it’s service levels and 3) I couldn’t be all that indignant while giggling (‘crypto-fascist’?!)
Anyway, so apparently I’m a crypto-fascist. I’m a trifle disappointed that I’m not a crypto-fascist-insect, but hey, gives me something to shoot for. The problem, however, is that I’m not sure what a crypto-fascist is. I know fascist has two definitions: the actual one, involving strict state control over economic matters and extreme nationalism, usually run by a dictator (socialism turned nasty, with guns) and the other one, meaning “I’m a liberal and I don’t like your arguement, thus you are a fascist” (not in vogue any more, but very popular in the early '70s)
The prefix “Crypto” means “hidden or secret”.
So apparently I am a secret dictator who wants control over the economy of the nation.
Unless he meant “Krypto-Fascist”, in which case, he was saying I’m Superman’s dog, and I want control over the economy of our nation. I find this explanation confusing, but oddly appealing, somehow.
Either way, I’m not sure how that relates to my giving him exactly the tip he deserved.
Anyway, tomorrow, I conquer Paris.
Fenris, Crypto-Fascist! (and still struck by the unreality of actually being called a “crypto-fascist”)
[sup]1[/sup]Note: for those asking why I didn’t make a scene, or even complain quietly, it’s because the friend I was out with is, for lack of a better word, phobic about scenes in public places. Any pleasure I’d have gotten from shredding Lethargic-Lad, or even quietly getting managment and demanding satisfaction would have been undermined by my friend’s horror of me doing it.
