It’s a commonly held view that waiters, like women, prefer a bastard. It’s a view most commonly held by assholes who justify their asshole behaviour by saying things like, “Ah they expect it, enjoy it even” or as Stephen Fry’s character in Absolute Power Charles Prentiss put it, “Deference they despise, treat ‘em rough and they’re lovely.” Deference indeed. Most people don’t share this view but there are some, a sizeable minority it has to be said, that do indeed believe this to be true. These are probably the same people who think that women love a bastard too. I had one such chap in my own section on Saturday night who was indeed labouring under the delusion that ‘waiters prefers bastards.’ Poor chap, I took great pleasure in correcting him. Gather round so I can tell you a, not very spooky, Halloween story about The Man, His Wife, The Cook* and The Waiter (who may or may not have been sweating buckets due to managements inability to get the air con fixed.)

*story may not actually contain any references to chefs or cooks of any sort.

It was Halloween night and all the waiters were restless, well the younger ones were. Me, not so much. Whilst they had parties and gatherings to attend I had only an uncarved pumpkin and a candy apple to go home to. Don’t feel bad for me I was really looking forward to my candy apple. Thankfully as most of our guests are of an age were getting dressed in regular clothes is considered an achievement there were mercifully few in fancy dress. That said we did have a three top of Dorothy, the Tin Man and something I assumed to be a lion but could just have easily been someone playing me in the nude. (I am hirsute in the extreme) There was also another table with a Yoda, a Stormtrooper (Star Wars not Nazi), a Darth Vader and quite inexplicably a Harry Potter. This mixing of themes troubled me and I couldn’t serve them and instead palmed them off to a younger waiter more free thinking and accepting of such craziness. Just why would any self respecting Stormtrooper (Nazi or Star Wars) be seen dead with a Harry Potter-a-like? It doesn’t make sense. I agonised over this for quite a while but eventually moved on from it when Waiter Chum Number One started a conversation about why homemade outfits are so much better than shop bought outfits. I agreed but didn’t really care.

Things had begun to slow down a bit from the early evening madness when I greeted a chap and his wife at the front door.

“Good evening folks and how are we tonight?” I was in a jolly mood now that Harry Potter and the cast of Star Wars had gone, most likely to a Spaghetti Western themed party.

“Two”, replied the man in the fetching Gore Tex trousers, shoes that could only be described as adventure shoes and shirt that seemed to wreak of super boring outdoor enthusiast, Ray Mears. He also had his mobile phone clipped to his belt. This alone should have been a warning of the good times ahead. He had ignored my pleasant greeting and I was less than amused by this. It costs fucking nothing to be civil you know.

“Two sir?”, I replied as if I had no idea what he wanted.

In a long drawl he replied back with, “Twooo” as if was both deaf and stupid. Twooo can play at that game matey.

“Table for twoooo sir is it? And what name are you reserved in, siiiiir?”

“No, no reservation, need a table for two.” His inability or rather his refusal to use full coherent sentences was grating on me somewhat.

“Wonderful sir, a table for two it is then. We have just had a cancellation so we can accommodate you just fine. Follow me.”

Disappointingly the only table we had free at that point was one in my section, obviously. I got the foreplay, soup specials etc, out of the way quick sharpish and rushed back to the bar to secure his beverage order . “Two white” to which I replied, “White?” Heh. I was determined to make this mook use a full sentence at some point in the evening.

Drinks delivered, order secured and all seemed well in the section of Manuel or as it’s actually known, and I’m not making this up, The Dark Room. I wandered for a moment round the restaurant and finished back were I started beside adventure boy with his phone still clipped to the side of his fetching and somewhat shiny trousers. His wife was dressed like Elvira, that is to say all in black. As she was a, ahem cough cough, healthy woman she didn’t quite pull the desired look off. But I was just glad she didn’t come in matching outdoor pursuit gear like her chap had.

CLICK

What was that?

CLICK again

Was that what I think it was?

CLICK CLICK CLICK

Oh he’s not, he didn’t just click me did he? I think he just fucking clicked me. I spun round to see adventure boy looking up at me with his hand in the just-about-to-click-the-waiter position. Now listen, I can just about get over guests being rude or demanding or smelly or whatever but clicking is one offense too far for me. All bets were off and it was goodbye to Manuel T. Waiter and hello to your worst restaurant nightmare, Mike Myers T. Waiter.

“Yup?”

“Table….”, he begun as he clasped the edges of the table as if the table itself was situated on the deck of the Titanic moments after it had hit the big lump of ice.

“Table?” I was tempted to follow that with, yes sir it’s a table but thought better of it.

“Yes, table…it’s too close to the wall. What are you going to do about it?” This was progress, an almost complete sentence. I put a gold star on the imaginary star chart for him.

“Too close to the wall eh? Got to be honest sir there’s very little, actually scrub that, there’s nothing I can do about that.” And I shrugged at him.

“BUT. IT’S TOO. CLOSE. TO. THE. WALL.” His heckles were up and his little face was all red with the excitement of it all. Fat Elvira looked both concerned and mortified.

Now I could have explained to him that the table was next to the wall because there was no where else to put it unless he actually wanted to dine in the bathrooms and that the only way to have the table and the wall separated was to have the whole restaurant remodelled thus creating a wonderful new dining experience where tables and walls never meet but this was unlikey to happen any time soon and even if work was commence straight away that his lamb would be cold by the time the work was completed but I didn’t.

No, I table eighted him instead. It’s a charmless table that is slightly away from the wall.

Table eight is this restaurant’s equivalent of the naughty step were misbehaving guests go to think about what they have done or what they didn’t do on their last visit. It’s cold, offers a view of nothing except a door that hasn’t been opened in five years and due to it’s unfavourable and unsighted location and the fact that we rarely seat anybody on it were you will be forgotten about. I popped by an hour later to see how he was getting on. His wife was shivering and looked even more grumpy than when he first came in. I wandered on. Hey it’s not my section, I cant be interfering in another waiters section now can I? He asked for his bill about ten minutes later and got it a further fifteen after that. Up yours adventure boy. Waiter don’t tango, so don’t ever, ever click your fingers.

So, who likes been treated like a bastard now?