It Is The Height Of Idiocy To Insult The Cook

THIS, via Early Onset of Night:

Okay, so, several things, and you're probably way ahead of me. First, this is the courage of the Typical Gaultian, beginning with Ayn "Medicare" Rand herself. Second, it's the typical intelligence of the Typical Gaultian (beginning loc.cit.), who imagines his solipsism trumps everyone else's. One wonders just how large a town this bozo lives in; he'd best travel, because no town is that large, and traveling might grant him an extra week before he needs to hire both a personal chef and a taster, like a good little Jobs Creator.

Look, Dick--if I may call you Dick--in the first place the person you're ultimately fucking is the Randian superman who owns the joint, and who gets to pay (in most locations) half the minimum wage to tipped employees, one of whom now gets to pay taxes on 8% of your sale despite making nothing, thanks to your principles. If the server can show that he or she did not make the difference in tips the owner has to pony up. If you think this will spread--Rise!--keep it up (remember, a healthy adult can generally ward off even a large E. coli infestation) and see how long it takes a class of people already on the lookout for bums and cheapskates to ID you, and all your pals. Sad, but true, there are many more of them than there are Morally Superior Men such as yourself. Believe me, it'll take about three of these before the people you think you're screwing start keeping records that the Gestapo would envy.

Anyone who's worked in a retail or restaurant establishment long enough--say, one afternoon--knows there are five-hundred ways to screw over a deserving customer without ever being suspected. Go on. Test the theory.

Me? When I turned 21 my intellectual mentor in college got me a waiter's job at the place where he worked supplementing his T.A. "income". It was a college town, and this was quite possibly the only white tablecloth establishment, aside from the ones the university ran. So it attracted a species of local maroon known as High Schoolers On Prom Night. I was warned ahead of time.

The place did tableside service: Caesar salad, cherries jubilee, that sorta thing. Waiters were busy. The local agriculture progeny were unfamiliar with a food establishment where the food didn't wait on you.

In truth, I did not really have the personality necessary for a successful career in haute cuisine. I was the new guy. I got the shittiest stations. Usually including tables by the kitchen door, which were the least desirable from the customer's viewpoint. So I'd get loaded down with children, and I couldn't detour around the tables because I had to go through the kitchen.

Prime Prom Time. I get a four top. Two couples, whose formal wear had be applied with a pitchfork. They were okay to begin with, but something went wrong, or something. I don't honestly remember. They started demanding their food every time I walked by, which was every time, and grabbing my sleeve to speed it along. Then they hit on the plan of ordering refills for their unspeakable Nehis, or whatever it was, one at a time. Ha ha ha!

I took it for about ten minutes. Then I stopped at the table on my way back to the kitchen.

"I'm very sorry that we got off on the wrong foot here somehow, and I want you to know that I do hope it won't spoil this wonderful night you have ahead of you. I would like to explain something to you. I'm going to go back into the kitchen now and check on your entrees. If they're ready, just like the salads you just ate, and the drinks you've been consuming, I'm going to pick them up, put them on a tray, and carry them out to you. Most of this is going to occur behind that door, where you don't see it. I just wanted to make sure everybody understood one another."

I swear to God, before I was finished both of the girls were the color of winter lawns. Their food was up, I delivered it pronto, and never heard another peep out of any of them.

Left a 10% tip, too, which, for high schoolers, was Diamond Jim Brady territory.