. . . mostly after (because I like to cook). I realize that sounds like a poop joke. And it isn’t (well, mostly it isn’t). Today I want to rant a little bit about people who don’t seem to understand that touching their food is kind of gross for me.
First, there are the people who just don’t want exactly what they were given. They begin by approaching the counter with their plate. They bore me with the fact that there are onions on their sandwich and that the menu did not list onions for that sandwich. Then they thrust the plate in my direction and stalk off expecting me to solve this.
There is definitely a bite taken out of the sandwich. Do they not realize that I’m going to go back into the kitchen and just pick the onions off before returning it to them? Couldn’t they do that? It’s not like these are the pulverized onions you get at a fast food restaurant, they’re clearly slices. I am not about to remake a sandwich unless someone is allergic to onions (and I am very understanding about allergies if I can be, but that is a whole different story). I don’t like touching a person’s food after they’ve begun enjoying it. Or not enjoying it, as the case may be.
Then, there are the people who don’t seem to notice that they have placed the remnants of their meal on the table. And I’m not just talking crumbs and splashes of dressing. I’m talking chunks of food the size of a baby’s fist. Who sets a sandwich down on the table instead of their plate and doesn’t notice? Are we in the thirteenth century? I mean, maybe they are really medieval diners who didn’t notice that the bread trenchers of the Middle Ages have been replaced by dishes. Maybe, right?
Okay, so first off we definitely have bus tubs and a trash can for the disposal of dishes and food. Second, I’m happy to bus your dishes but does there really need to include chewed up, spit on, or fingered food on the table? Touching your dirty dishes is quite enough without having to peel used napkins and chewed food from them first. I find doing dishes calming. Let’s keep it that way.
The moral of the story is: I want to touch your poop about as much as I want to touch your chewed food. Maybe people think that I can magically vanish the mess they create. Maybe they think that I get my jollies from touching things that have been saturated in someone their bodily fluids. Or maybe they just get their kicks from convincing someone (an underpaid someone, mind you) to touch their leftover food. Whichever one of these fits the bill, I’m not impressed.
This post was brought to you by two drunk girls who thought that the tomato they found to be less than satisfactory was something that I would love to peel off of their table. Thank you, girls. Stay hydrated.