Reid About It

If I may, I'd like to share a message with the waitstaff of America.

Please, do me a favor. When I give you my order, write it down. Humor me.

Otherwise, when I order a burger and a Coke, and you bring me a steak sandwich and a White Russian with extra Kahlua, don't look at me like I'm Leona Helmsley for getting upset.

I promise I won't think ill of you for having to write things down. You'll still be tops in my book even if you have to take a extra moment to jot it in ink.

I hate it when there's a team of waiters. One for the drinks, one for the order, one makes the food drop off, and then everybody vanishes when you need a refill.

A total stranger runs by and drops the food on your table, then somebody else immediately shows up for the inquisition.

"How's that look?"

"It looks great! However, as soon as you leave on your twenty minute smoke break, I'll cut into it and realize it's at room temperature with center as pink as a Peep. Right now, it appears to be fine."

And if my food is not as I asked, just fix it. Just take it in the back and get what I ordered, I understand that mistakes happen. Don't feel like you've got to deflect the blame. I hate the good cop-bad cop routine.

"Oh, they're having lots of problems back in the kitchen tonight. One cook called in sick, and another is going through serious detox and his hands are shaking like Amy Winehouse. They're really backed up in there, I'll go see if I can get your food ready."

I don't care who's fault it is my well done steak is bleeding and mooing. Just fix it, don't pass the blame. Don't pretend you're the last hope for society and the rest of the staff is made of gypsies, tramps, and thieves.