I did not think it was an unreasonable request. I had ordered fajitas and when the waitress served them I noticed that there was no salsa on the plate.
“When you get a chance,” I said quite nicely, “could I get some salsa, please?” I am always exceptionally nice to food servers because I waited tables in college and I know they have a horrible, stressful job; I also know what they might do to my food if I annoy them.
Now however, in response to my reasonable request, the waitress just stared at me as though frozen. She gulped. “You want salsa?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” I said brightly. She was still staring at me so I felt compelled to explain. “I have fajitas,” I pointed out, needlessly, since she had both taken the order and served them to me. “And there is no salsa on my plate.” I pointed to my salsa-less plate. The waitress just nodded. “And I like salsa with my fajitas.” I paused; she was still staring at me with her mouth open. “Fajitas without salsa are like pancakes without syrup,” I concluded.
“We don’t serve pancakes here,” she said. “This is a Mexican restaurant.”
I bit my tongue. “May I please have some salsa?” I said with restraint. “My fajitas are getting cold.”
“I’ll get the manager,” she said, and fled; my partner looked at me wordlessly and shrugged. “My guess is you’re not getting any salsa,” he said.
A minute later the manager showed up. “What’s the problem?” he said.
“There’s no problem,” I said. “The cook did not put any salsa on my plate and I would like some.” The manager stared at me, eyes wide. I was getting annoyed. “May I please have some salsa? Is this a big deal?”
He shook his head miserably. “I’ll figure out something,” he said and, in response to my incredulous look he said, “The cook is a bit … temperamental.” He said. “He doesn’t like to be told he did something wrong.”
“Don’t tell him he’s wrong,” I said logically. “Just tell him the customer wants more salsa.”
“The cook doesn’t like special requests,” said the manager.
This was absurd. “Then just go get the salsa yourself,” I said. “You are the manager, right?”
“I’m not allowed in the kitchen,” he told me, fleeing.
Sighing, I began to eat my cold, salsa-less fajitas, and I suddenly remembered Chef Bigg. Chef Bigg was the head chef in the Italian restaurant where I worked when I was in college. He was enormous, with bright red skin and tiny little close-set eyes and a tragically upturned nose. His name was Kip but he insisted on being addressed as “Chef Bigg” or “Sir” but, inevitably, and behind his back, we called him ‘Chef Pigg’ or (this was my brainstorm) ‘Sir Pigg.’
Chef Pigg was a megalomaniac who could not bear to be questioned or challenged. He would scream and curse at anyone who dared to question his judgement and he would literally throw things – dishes, tomatoes, lamb shanks, at anyone who entered his kitchen without his approval. He once threw a meat cleaver at a waitress who returned a steak that the customer said was overcooked, and then he went out and threatened the customer, who, like most of our customers, never came back. Everyone from the owner to the dishwashers was terrified of him, and I once asked the manager why the owner didn’t fire him.
The manager looked furtively over his shoulder. “Chef Pigg knows where the owner lives,” he said, as if that explained everything, which it did. Not long after I believe the owner was grateful when the restaurant went belly up because it saved him from having to fire Kip.
Now the waitress and the manager came back together; she set down half a ramekin of salsa; he had a huge salsa stain on his crisp white shirt.
“There’s your salsa,” she said.
“Enjoy your fajitas,” said the manager faintly.
As they walked away, I heard the manager say, “Let’s just stay away from Kip for the rest of this shift. “