Rule number one: never get even with the customer.

Rule number two: there are always exceptions.

Yes, there are always exceptions and those exceptions only exist because you, yourself, are an exception to all standards of human decency.

You want your fries well done.  And I’ve made a note in my book and I’ve even circled it which means pay very close attention to this otherwise your life will become a living nightmare I know the type of customer you are.  Because you just took up the last couple minutes of my time telling me about last week when you came in and you ordered your fries well done and they came out regular.  Your first world problems are duly noted.  I’m also going to make certain that your appetizer arrives thirty seconds before your meal.

You want your salad chopped well.  You spend an inordinate amount of time explaining to me what this is you’ve demonstrated chopping signals with your hands you’ve used a butter knife thank you Barefoot Contessa for scratching the vinyl surface of the table top.  My busboy is going to really enjoy trying to buff this out later.  You’ve even taken a sugar packet and origamied the hell out of it to signal how small you want your lettuce leaves to be.  So when you tell me the room is too cold I’m going to take your complaint very seriously and pretend to push all the buttons on the thermostat.  But really I’m taking this place down to a raging 68 degrees I’m having hot flashes here can’t you see the sweat exploding from my brow?  No I didn’t just stick my head under the sink but now that you mention it, that does sound tempting.

You order your burger and you order it medium and you explain to me that medium means just the right amount of pink and you don’t want to see too much brown or too much red you want it just perfect and I’m wondering if you think I’m a five year old child just mastering their linguistic capacities.  Medium means in the middle which means you don’t need to be redundant I have a firm grasp on the English language.  I’m literally the whitest person in this place.  So I’m going to bend down and get on your level and make excruciatingly uncomfortable eye contact and speak very, very slowly.  Very slowly.  Like a warped recording.  I may even lift my eyebrows and nod my head for maximum effect.  It works wonders with the five year olds I teach I’m certain it will have the same effect on you.

You order your soup.  I don’t want it cold, you say.  Considering the fact that our soup is kept at a constant internal temperature of 175 I highly doubt this is going to be a problem and I doubt even more that it has ever been one.  But you’re insistent.  You want to see the steam rising to the ceiling.  So I’m going to pop that bitch into the microwave for two solid minutes and our microwaves are industrial strength meaning I have to bring it to you with a hot pan holder meaning by the time your soup is cool enough to eat your coworker is asking for the bill.

The thing is, you’re making my job really difficult.  Quite frankly, you’re making it almost impossible.  I serve a hundred other people everyday who don’t complain about the size of their lettuce or the temperature of their soup or the rareness of their burgers.  I don’t mind overly specific orders that’s fine by me 75% of the orders I take are unreasonable.  But that doesn’t mean you need to be unreasonable.

I’m not stupid I’m actually kind of smart and I know that’s shocking considering the fact that you regard anybody in an apron as being intellectually inferior to you but that’s your problem, not mine.  I’m so intellectually deprived that I actually do the menu programming software which means that I built the button in the system that says “FF WELL” which means that the only reason your fries came out right is because I created the means for that to occur in the first place.  You’re welcome.

So while your stomach is busy digesting all that extra oil (because what do you think FF WELL means?) I’m busy standing in the galley, writing out this blog post and experiencing a ridiculous amount of satisfaction this amount of pleasure should really be illegal. Or at least heavily taxed.

Oh, your soup was too hot to eat?  How strange.  I can’t imagine how that ever could have occurred.  Maybe, next time, you can order your soup like it comes: hot.