Bitch Kitty Racing

Every restaurant or bar manager trains the staff to think of the place as their home, and the customers as their guests. It would be wonderful if the customers could return the favor and act like they were guests in someone’s home. Alas, there are far too few child beatings these days and a percentage of the population (thankfully not a large one) continues to order while on the cell phone, make creepy sexual suggestions to the server, or insist that something is replaced, not because it is bad, but because they don’t like it.

“What?” you say. “That doesn’t happen. You’re making it up, John. No one would walk into a friend’s dinner party and ask for another dish because they didn’t like the one they have. No parent would allow their children to grow up being so horrendously rude. No establishment would ever replace a dish based on a personal dislike—they’d go broke!”

It really does happen. A table will hold a server while on the phone, then complain that the dish is bad and want it replaced. The manager will be called to chat with the guest.

“This is bad,” the guest will say. “Can I get something else?”

“Can you tell me what’s wrong with your dish, sir?” I’ll ask.

“I don’t like it.”

“Is there something wrong with the dish, sir?”

“It’s too hot,” the guest will say.

“Generally, sir, we consider it a good thing when our entrees come out warm.”

“Spicy, I mean.”

“Ah. Which dish did you order?” I’ll ask.

“The chicken.”

“Was that the fiery Cajun chicken with smoked Serrano peppers, or was it the cream of chicken on white toast?”

“The Cajun chicken,” the guest will say.

“Ah. So, you had the fiery Cajun chicken. With smoked Serrano peppers.” I like to be very clear in my own mind that we’re talking about the same dish. “Was that, sir,” I’ll ask further, just to clarify, “The chicken with the words ‘fiery,’ ‘Cajun,’ and ‘pepper’ in the title, and the chicken described in the menu as: ‘spicy,’ ‘hot,’ ‘ulcer-inducing,’ ‘like tear gassing your tongue,’ ‘exceptionally painful,’ and ‘so hot your gums will literally, quite actually dissolve into a mass of bloody, raw-nerved, loose-toothed infernal goo?’

“Yeah, that one” the guest will say. “Can I get something else?”

“I do want to get to the bottom of this situation, sir, and make sure that your server (who will be immediately beaten with a sack of live porcupines before being fired for gross incompetence) noticed there was a problem and then failed to do anything about it. Did, sir, your server check back the five times we require to remain employed in this establishment?”

“I didn’t see the waitress once,” the guest will say.

“Did your, ahem, server not cut your food up and lovingly place every bite in your mouth with a mother’s care, as dictated by company policy?”

“I dunno. Maybe,” the guest will reply.

“Did your server not then prepare the ritual of hara-kiri in the extremely remote chance that, with every mouthful, you should immediately not simultaneously orgasm and experience The Rapture?”

“Yeah, can I get a free cake or something?”

“When I was at your table pouring wine earlier, sir,” I’ll continue, “And we were discussing how our fully organic peppers are farmed for us in a steel furnace in Hell by a fair trade organization of imps while you were licking your plate—did you notice the problem then, sir?”

“Can you just take it off the bill?”

“Now, again, just to clarify sir,” I’ll say, “Was there a problem with the dish, which was prepared by the same team of chefs who recently were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize; founded the culinary traditions of France, Italy, Thailand, India, China, and Japan; and is headed by your grandmother, or did it just not suit your palate?”

“Yeah, can I get something else?”

“Seeing as how this is my home, sir, and I’ve invited you and and given you free reign over my wife and children in gratitude your patronage, and will have to take this cyanide capsule should you not be completely satisfied and have discovered the true meaning of life in your entree, just to clarify, sir, just to make sure I have it completely clear in my own mind before I die, right here and right now, was there a problem with the dish, was it actually too spicy, or did you just not like it?”

“I just didn’t like it.”

“Have you,” I will ask, “Had food before, sir?”

“Well, you know, I get the spicy chicken sandwich at McDonald’s all the time, I’ve had spicy food before, but this just isn’t any good.”

“Ah. What other five star restaurants have you eaten at before, sir? And do you critique for a national magazine? Are you a trained chef? What is your culinary background?” I ask, pouring gasoline on myself in preparation for the match.

“I go on Yelp.com all the time.”

“Ah,” I say, “You’re a yelper.”

“Yeah.”

“Yelp.com,” I’ll say. “Yelp, the place where anybody, anyone at all, can say whatever they want for any reason whatsoever, totally unmoderated; where people without any training, skill, background, or education in the field can make their opinions known, and completely out of context; where the same person can slam a Michelin acclaimed restaurant, praise Denny’s, and yet somehow be taken seriously; where restaurants that don’t pay for a subscription get lower ratings than restaurants that do pay for a subscription; where any and every jackass with an internet connection can create content. That Yelp.”

“Yeah,” the guest will say.

And then, in a fit of understanding that the world requires no context, does not need any credentials, routinely sends bank account numbers to Nigerian princes, forwards dancing cats to everyone in the address book, and actually takes user-created content seriously, I’ll light the match and immolate myself.