"Hello, my name is Candi, and I'll be your server this evening. For tonight's special, we're offering insensitivity, served rare with a side of obnoxiousness."

You must see The Triplets of Belleville. It is a bizarre and charming romp, a story of love, devotion, perseverance, the triumph of good over evil, and the Popeye-esque dysmorphia of the elite cyclist.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Alas, my happy little post-movie bubble was burst by an all-too-prevalent intruder: the idiot waitress. I don't mean to disrespect all of the hard-working and life-sustaining members of the Food Servers Union of the World. My brother waits tables, my best friend put herself through college that way, and I, myself, was once a hostess on roller skates at the long-lamented Last American Diner. I love eating out, I do so far too often, and I reward good service with hefty tips (even mediocre service is likely to score at least 15% from me).

But the idiot waitress was spawned in 1986 at a TGIFriday's in Duluth, and has spread her kind like root rot through mid-market restaurants everywhere. She must introduce herself to her customers by name, a uniquely American practice I fail entirely to comprehend. She will return to the table a minimum of four times during the meal, just to "see how everything is going." These impromptu visits invariably occur either while the diners are deeply engrossed in conversation or immediately after one of them has placed a large forkful of food into his mouth. And of course, after her incessant interruptions during the meal, she will vanish as soon as the plates have been cleared, leaving the diners to wonder whether they will be permitted to depart before closing time.

But I'm sure you've heard this rant before from food critics, your in-laws, and the guy bitching loudly at the next table. What really annoyed the crap out of me last night was that in addition to committing all of the above infractions, the idiot waitress du jour played to my weak side and left me feeling disabled and moronic.

Not once, not twice, but three times she approached the table while I was in mid-sentence, and stood right next to me (instead of in front of the table) so that I had absolutely no idea she was there. When my friend (who bears some of the blame for my embarrassment and is on probationary status pending further review) finally alerted me to her presence, the waitress laughed uproariously, as though my failure to see or hear her was the funniest thing she'd witnessed since that one guy dropped that plate of guacamole down his date's white silk shirt. Lookit lookit!! She can't see me!! She's still talking!! Just like I'm not even here!! Isn't it hilarious!!

The first time this happened, I was chagrined. The second time, I was annoyed. And the third time, I was about ready to slap her, particularly when she decided to make sure I knew she was there NOT by standing in front of me, where I might actually see her, but by approaching once again from the side, and tapping me rather firmly on the back. While this method did, indeed, have the desired result, it also startled me enough that I only narrowly avoided reprising the guacamole/shirt incident. And of course, in response to my surprise, Ms. Sensitivity had another good laugh at my expense.

She treated me to further pats on the back and condescending smiles when she finally (finally!) brought us the check, and again when she returned to take our payment 20 long minutes later. I toyed with the thought of complaining to the manager and/or leaving her no tip at all, but I was too steamed to do the former and couldn't bring myself to do the latter. I left 10% and walked out feeling like a total dork.

I know that when it happened the first time, I should have told her that I'm hard-of-hearing and can't see for shit, and asked her to stand in front of me instead of to the side. But it just seemed like too much effort for the situation, and by the second or third round, I was too annoyed to deal with it. So I dealt with it passively-aggressively (and by that I mean "not at all"), and have only myself to blame for my lingering crankiness.

Comments

[T P B, Esq.]

I tend to think I would have been a little more "Michael Douglas in Falling Down" had I been forced to deal with that nonsense. BTW, the diner is alive and well. It lives in New Jersey, the land of bad hair and way-too-long nails.

[Katherine]

why should you have to tell her about your disability?

she ought to know better; I say you should've stomped her: complained to the manager and left no tip.

The body-touching thing I find particularly offensive; not only is that an invasion of your space/privacy, but it is so blatantly informal that it is unprofessional.