See you later, waiter, my keeper
WHAT is it with waiters and the bill? Why is it that when I am ready to pay and leave a restaurant, waiters disappear? Where do they go? What are they doing? Has their shift ended?
I have eaten at your restaurant; it is now time for me to leave; please bring me the bill. Please. I want to pay. I want to pay so much. I do not want to abscond. That wouldn’t be fair; my conscience wouldn’t allow that; I am far too nice to do that. But I am thinking that! I owe you money. Please take my money and set me free.
Look, I have a credit card. It’s on the table, placed on the diagonal to the way I am seated so that it projects a tempting “I’m ready to be picked up’’ posture.
But I am not free: I cannot move; I am being held in abeyance; I have lost control of my destiny! Let me pay and give me back my dignity.
To physically get up and go over to the waiter would be to make a scene. (I have done this several times. I can assure you that I am quite polite about it.) And my dining companions would be all, like: “Bernard calm down, they’ll bring the bill in due course.’’
Fine. Fine. I’ll wait. And I’ll wait. And I’ll wait. I am thinking of putting a message in a bottle and rolling it towards the kitchen: “Please help me. I am being held captive by a recalcitrant waiter in your restaurant who refuses to look in my direction. Please help me pay so that I may go back to my loved ones. Please.’’
I start to hallucinate. I’ll give it another few minutes, then I am going to get up and calmly walk out. I bet they’d come running then. But how would that play out? To other diners it’d look like I was doing a runner. But I’m not doing a runner. I wanted to pay. I tried to pay. I am not a criminal. I am a revolutionary. I am taking direct action on behalf of disenfranchised proletarian diners everywhere. Power must be wrested from the waiter class and ceded back to the people.
Why can’t those technology boffins in Silicon Valley invent a card that can be scanned by diners at the table? Like they have at supermarket check-outs?
Then the waiter would be relegated to the menial task of standing around trouble-shooting between the tables when the scan doesn’t work. Oh, those waiters wouldn’t like that, would they? Oh no. Those waiters like the raw, naked power they exercise over dining minions desirous of leaving. Yes, desirous. I’m getting all 19th-century in my language, I am so upset.
Finish the meal. Scan the card. Tear off a receipt. Done. Gone. See you later, waiter. Ha. You ain’t holdin’ me back no more.
Then the hallucination ends and I come back to earth. What is an acceptable timeframe between the end of the meal and being able to actually leave the restaurant. I say it’s 10 minutes.
Two minutes to catch the waiter’s eye with a discreet hand-scribble action from afar. Four minutes for the waiter to bring the bill. Two minutes for the card to be processed and for me to sign. (I love Europe where waiters have a card thing in a holster so as to facilitate swift at-table financial transactions.) And a final two minutes for all dining companions at the table to say in unison: “Well, I suppose we should be making a move.’’
Source: The Australian - 8 August 2014
