Runny and Hot, not Tepid

Another Sunday brunch under my belt. True, I have stated on several occasions in the past that "this is the last Sunday brunch I will ever work" and also true that the stepchild of any schedule is the brunch shift, yet here I am delivering eggs again - I wouldn't believe it if my feet didn't hurt so much. Working brunch is like working in a blender, a constant whirlwind of coffee, more coffee, cream, and every once in a while a shouting match with the chef, and profuse apologies to the customer who asked for eggs sunny side up, but the whites well done and the yellow runny and hot, not tepid. (uh, we're not magicians here) Of all the meal periods, people have the most idiosyncracies with their morning nutrition. It is not uncommon for me to write a paragraph of special requests under the item "ham and cheese omelet". And everyone is simply married to their coffee condiments. ( I once ran out of milk about 20 years ago, and since then I've drunk it black.) I've had customers get up and leave because we ran out of wheat bread. But here's the thing - the restaurant is not there so that you can be king or queen for the day and have someone be a slave to your every psychotic disfunctional whim, no; it is there as an opportunity for you to taste the pride of the chefs' work, relax and bask in the friendliness of your hosts and enjoy the hard efforts made in order to deliver it to you. In fact, the intelligent people, of which there are startlingly few, ask straight away my opinion, and ask what is popular, what the restaurant is known for etc. Trust me, they get a great meal every time. So next time you go out, leave your pathetic controlling baggage at home, and try to relax for God's sake.

This may turn into a weekly topic, so stay tuned for next week's "Waiters are pieces of shit"...