The waiter’s name was Rod and he shook all of our hands, promising us “a memorable dining experience.” He said we should look at the menu and that he’d be right back. “Don’t go away,” he said wagging a finger at us jauntily.
“Can we go?” I said as soon as Rod was out of earshot. “I don’t want a memorable experience.” My partner nodded emphatically. “He’s trouble,” said my partner, referring to Rod.
My sisters nixed the idea. “He’s just being nice,” said my older sister. “Besides, I’m starving,” said my middle sister. Since we were there as her guests I let the subject drop, but my partner, who dislikes shaking hands with strangers, dug out his bottle of Purell and began scrubbing his hands vigorously.
He was still scrubbing when Rod came back. “Move over,” Rod said to my partner, who, astonished, obeyed, allowing Rod to slide in next to him in the booth. Rod combed his long, greasy hair back from his face with his hands “What are you drinking, Sweetie?” said Rod to my middle sister, putting his hand over hers.
My middle sister hates being called “Sweetie” or “Dear” or “Honey” and has been known to tell overly friendly food servers, “Please call me ‘Ma’am’. ” Now she held her tongue, although it clearly pained her to do so, and ordered a glass of wine, pulling her hand away from Rod as she did. As the rest of us murmured our drink orders my partner offered the Purell to my middle sister. She took it.
“I’ll be back,” said Rod.
“Thank you, Rob,” said my older sister, trying to diffuse the increasingly chilly atmosphere at the table.
“My name’s Rod,” said Rod. “Think of me as Hot Rod,” he said, and he winked.
“I’d rather not,” said my sister shortly. “I don’t want to wreck my appetite.” Rod got up, laughing uproariously, “You guys are great!” he said. He patted my sister familiarly on the shoulder and left to get our drinks.
By my calculations, Rod had annoyed four people in six minutes, including my middle sister who would be leaving him his tip. “Now can we go?” I asked her.
“He’s just being friendly,” my middle sister repeated half-heartedly. I sighed. I spend most of my life feigning friendship with coworkers, neighbors, clients and the occasional family member; I don’t need to pretend to be the BFF of the waiter.
When Rod returned all four of us were glued to our menus and, by unspoken agreement, none of us looked at him, or spoke, as he put down our drinks. My partner had positioned himself in such a way that Rod could not possibly sit down next to him again so Rod stood to take our order. “What are the young ladies eating?” said Rod.
I felt, rather than saw, both my sisters stiffen. They are not old women but the “Young Lady” title had expired several husbands ago. I know they both find the term to be patronizing, condescending and disrespectful. They both ignored Rod.
He cleared his throat. “I asked what the young ladies will be having?” said Rod, and no one responded. “Um, Young Ladies?” said Rod uncertainly.
“No young ladies at this table,” said my older sister.
“Just us middle aged ones,” said my middle sister.
“Who are paying your tip,” I pointed out.
“Which is getting smaller by the minute,” said my partner helpfully.
Rod looked at us uncertainly, as thought trying to decide if we were joking. He decided we weren’t. “I’ll be right back,” he said and left for a long time. Several long minutes later a middle aged woman with a bad haircut came to the table. “I’m Doris,” she said in a raspy voice that sounded like unfiltered Camel cigarettes. “Can I take your order?”
We all got along famously.