Hunger: That which reminds you that no matter how often you use wireless internet or how well you can analyze Macbeth, you are really just an animal.
As you are undoubtedly aware, sometimes the beastly master we call hunger strikes us when we are not near our kitchen. Sometimes, we even plan it so the twisting, knife-like pangs of hunger strike our stomachs when we are away from our domiciles. This is part of what has come to be popularly known as eating out.""
There is, at least for me, a major hurdle to leap when I choose to engage in this ""eating out"" process. I speak not of money - not that I have a lot, but what I do have, I spend (why bother to make something if you're not going to use it). I speak not of our ubiquitous media that saturates its targets with images of unattainable body size and unrealistically fit abs, a foe which causes people to eat out less or at least ignore the side of sour cream that comes with a southwestern omelet.
No, the adversary - or should I say aggregation of adversaries? - I speak of is waitstaff. Waiters and waitresses are a difficult, but frequently necessary, part of attaining food from a kitchen that you don't own or rent.
I have no particular beef with waiters. They're just people like you or me. However, I don't really like them, because I don't really like people.
They are a major issue for me when eating out. I struggle with the idea that this person should be under any circumstances serving me. What have I done that's so great? I went to college - big deal. I did that so I won't earn $7 an hour for the rest of my life. What else? I like to write - that's even less useful to society than going to college: at least going to college means pumping money into the economy. I know Kraftwerk ripped off Neu? I've seen a lot of Murnau films?
As you can see, nothing I've ever done justifies another human being serving me. I understand the function of the waiter - to relay between you and the kitchen what you wish the chef to provide for you. But the whole show of kindness, hipness, sassiness or hominess that waiters are forced to exude really makes me uncomfortable. I wish that before the server begins with ""Hi! I'm Taylor, and I'm going to be your server today!"" I could confer with him or her and let the server know that there's absolutely no need to go through the whole routine with me.
""Listen Taylor,"" I would say, patting him or her affectionately on the shoulder, ""I know you're working for tips. I'm gonna give you 20 to 30 percent of my check whether you dazzle me with your cheerfulness or whether you make me question if you're currently on meth. As long as the food comes out, I'm happy. Please don't feel the need to check up on me or fill up my water after every sip. Let's interact as human beings.""
Unfortunately, that would come across as weird and obsessive, so instead, I try to let the server know that I know what's really happening by saying things that make fun of the formality of the rote server-served relationship. Oftentimes the server understands that I understand and laughs, but more frequently, he or she looks at me like ""what the hell"" and proceeds to give me that ""oh, here's another one"" smile.
This problem is exacerbated when the server is clearly a career waiter, a situation which makes me feel guiltier than a Catholic on Good Friday.
Why are you serving me? You're probably waiting tables at age 44 because you weren't born into an environment that stimulated you toward better jobs and larger paychecks. You, my middle-aged friend, have been duped by a system that doesn't adjust for varying qualities of upbringing and makes it so you have to serve people who've been given every possible advantage over you. We should be serving you! We should be selling our iPods to pay your kids' way through college.
Agh.... I guess I'll have the patty melt with a side of ranch.
Think Joe does in fact deserve to be waited on? Tell him why.. E-mail him at jblynch@wisc.edu._
