“Hello,” said the waiter, “my name is Harmony and I’m here to help you make wise food choices tonight.” He paused as though waiting for a response while four middle-aged men stared at him, mouths open.
Since none of us spoke he continued, establishing the ground rules for our dinner: “Don’t call me a ‘waiter,’” he admonished, wagging his finger in Kenny’s face, “I’m not here to wait on you. And don’t call me a ‘server’,” he told Carlos, “because I am not your servant.” My partner and I exchanged a glance; Harmony had not yet spoken a word to either of us but he was clearly ready to bolt. “Think of me as your Dining Consultant,” said Harmony grandly.
He turned his attention to me. “Let’s get to know each other,” he said. “What was your goal in coming here tonight?”
I gulped; I was not sure if I was ordering dinner or interviewing for it, but I gave it a shot: “We heard you have really good burgers,” I said. I paused, thinking my answer sounded inadequate, so I hastily added: “And tater tots.”
Harmony looked at me coldly. “But why did you choose this food emporium?” he asked. “What caused the stars to align so that we are all sharing this little piece of real estate right now?”
I cleared my throat. “Well, we were cleaning out the garage all day,” I said, “and we didn’t feel like showering and shaving.” Harmony just stared at me. “So here we are,” I finished lamely
Harmony put on his “hurt” face; he was not pleased. “What kind of place do you think this is?” he asked , “Some kind of dive?”
Dude,” I said, “You have peanut shells on the floor!”
Harmony wisely ignored that and turned to my partner. “And you?” he demanded. “What brings you here?”
My partner has no patience for this type of nonsense. “I’d like a beer,” he said. “And a menu.” Harmony stared, eyes wide, as though no one had ever asked him for a beer or a menu before. “What do you have on draft?” my partner asked.
Harmony rolled his eyes, took our drink orders and left for a very long time.
While he was gone we compared notes on what seems to be the prevailing attitude of food servers in Fort Lauderdale: They clearly regard themselves as long-lost friends who are active participants in the mealtime conversation and who, incidentally, may also serve food and drink if so inclined. Carlos mentioned the waitress who told him about her fertility problems and Kenny told us about the waiter who sat down at the table with him to discuss the kitchen manager’s poor supervisory skills. I was still incensed over the waitress who asked for my editor’s e-mail address because “I can do a better job than you,” and my partner told us about the waiter who lectured him on the benefits of a Trump presidency.
“Why can’t they just bring us food and shut up?” I asked, adding that my attitude towards waiters and waitresses is the same as my attitude towards children: That they should be seen and not heard, and of course everyone agreed.
By this time Harmony reappeared; he had clearly decided to be magnanimous. He good naturedly served three draft beers and a Diet Coke and distributed menus. “You’re probably wondering how I got my name?” he asked the table at large.
“Nope,” said Kenny.
“I’m not,” I said.
“Never crossed my mind,” said Carlos, while my partner shook his head mutely.
It didn’t matter; Harmony gave us the entire history of how he came to be named “Harmony” (Short version: drugs were involved.) He also gave us the details of his phenomenally complex love life, the effect of honeybees on US crop production and why it is not advisable to have sex in the snow.
After the “sex in the snow” story Harmony, blessedly, paused for a breath. I saw my opportunity.
“Can we order now?” I said. “We’re hungry.”
Harmony glared. “I’m not paid to put up with rudeness,” he said, and stormed off.