Serving the people who serve us

“Working at a restaurant, you usually get familiar with the regulars. In fact, that’s expected. But what’s strange about that is the exception, the people who don’t want to be recognized, like the aging blonde escort who comes in religiously and places the same impossible order of poached and steamed better-whatever that are not, and never have been, on the menu. She’s insulted when I recognize her and say, ‘Welcome back!’ because it must clue the ever-changing man next to her (the airline pilot or the car salesman who lets her pay) onto her filthy scheme. ‘You make me sound bad,’ she says back to me. Eventually she gets insufferable, leaning over a martini and flashing her saggage at him like it will save her from me. But it won’t. I have spat in her food before. I have put things she says she’s allergic to in her rice, and she hasn’t noticed or even reacted. And she never leaves us anything, save a greasy smear on the booth from the over-processed blondness and the gagging wind of rubbing alcohol she calls perfume. Sad.”