I love the food service industry

I seem to attract weird people and weird service experiences. Maybe it’s because I look like a pushover, who knows. But recently I’ve had a slew of interesting food service experiences. There’s a drive-thru Dairy Queen in the gas station at the highway exit I take to get home. A few weeks ago my Mom stopped to order a peanut sundae. When we pulled up to the window to get it the young, red-clad DQ employee smiled at her proudly and handed her her sundae cup – “I put all the chocolate and peanuts on the bottom for you.” My Mom just stared at the cup, dumbfounded. I could see her considering explaining to the employee exactly what a sundae is and why the toppings go on top. But it really wasn’t worth it. I stopped there myself about a week ago and ordered a small soft serve twist dipped in chocolate. When I pulled up to the window the guy handed me a cone with a huge bulge of ice cream hanging more than half way down the side of the cone - encased in that yummy, waxy chocolate coating. I stared at it dumbfounded. Why would someone even give me this ice cream fuck up? He and both knew that about 30 seconds after I pulled away that chocolate coating was going to crack and a huge glob of melted ice cream was going to run down my hands, steering wheel and into my lap and probably cause a horrific accident while I tried to do damage control and keep half an eye on the road. He must have sensed my dissatisfaction, he motioned to wait one minute, then came back and handed me a 2 inch pile of napkins. Thanks, dude.
I made it about 4 miles or so before the sugary, dripping catastrophe occurred. After a couple near misses crossing the center line I had to pull over in front of the local jr high , get out of my car and stand on the side of the road, holding my ice cream cone fountain in one hand and the half intact chocolate shell in the other, trying to eat out of each hand before both prizes melted away in the Virginia heat. Then the attempt to clean my hands and steering wheel so I could complete my commute. Maybe they do it on purpose. Maybe they’re just low on the iq totem pole. After all, it is DQ. Either way, I weep for the future.

Scene 2 : California Pizza Kitchen (not my idea). We’re sitting, waiting at our table. Our waiter sashays over - a somewhat tubby, flush faced, gay man with a goatee. He immediately squats down at the end of our booth. I hate this, it makes me feel like a child at some big people restaurant being patronized by the waiter, when in fact I am an adult at a family restaurant being patronized by a waiter. His first words are to gesture at my stomache and ask how far along I am. He then declares decidedly, “ If I were pregnant I think the summer would be the worst time. I would definitely want to be pregnant in the winter rather than through the summer months.” It seemed like he had actually thought about this a lot. Feeling in a slightly more amiable mood for making chit chat than normal I responded that the summer’s not so bad for being pregnant. After all, you can just wear around a big, loose sundress all summer and hardly have to buy any maternity clothes at all. He smiled wistfully and replied “I wish I could wear a sundress…” I nearly shot ice water out of my nose. My mom just raised her eyebrow at me across the table. I thought about offering to let him borrow one of mine, but even at 6 and a half months pregnant I didn’t think it would fit him.

Scene 3 : Pizza Hut (admittedly my idea, but hey – pregnant and hungry). I show up, and perhaps I should admit that this is not the best part of town, and this location probably does ten times the delivery business that it does dine-in. But I show up and there is one other family in the place. There are about 12 employees. I stand patiently at the hostess podium until one of them looks over and miraculously decides to take the initiative to seat me. Once again I get the overweight, ruddy faced waiter who looks like he’s 30 but is probably 20 at best. He nearly touches my belly as he starts asking me preggers questions, but I have a sufficiently forbidding look about me to prevent him mid-reach. After he seats me he continues to ask me more questions about my pregnancy. Then he says, “I know it’s personal questions but I have a few ---- running around.” He kind of turned away as he said it, so I assumed he said he kids, because that would be the only relevant possibility. “Oh.” I say. “Yeah, 4 or 5 or so.” ? “Or so?” I ask.
“Yeah, a few of them died after they were born, so I kinda lose count.” You lose count ?! Now I am both mortified and confused. Are we talking about kids? Or did he maybe say cats? Or some other kind of pet? “But,” he continues, “I still have at least a couple who are alive and running around.” I am at a loss. “Well, that’s good.” I say. I order a coke with lemon. He brings me a plate with an entire lemon on it. I get an order of breadsticks. I figure it will be a quick snack. I proceed to wait for the next 30 minutes, the waiter never comes back. The other family eats and leaves. The bus boy polishes every table twice and then gets on his cell phone. In the next dining room employees are taking breaks and eating at the tables. In the kitchen I can see two burly, sweaty guys. One of them is buckling his belt back up and tucking his shirt deep into his pants. He doesn’t wash his hands. At the front counter 4 or more employees are talking, leaning on the counter. I know they see me. I know they realize I’ve been sitting there a long time and I have no food. They give uninterested glances in my direction – like the way a cow looks at you while it’s chewing on it’s cud and isn’t able to do that and think at the same time. Finally I get up and find the bus boy and ask him to check on my order. I can hear them arguing about it in back – “No, all she had was an order of breadsticks. She didn’t get anything else.” “Well, she never got them,” the busboy replies. Ten minutes later my waiter comes out with his backpack on, he calls me beautiful and drops off the breadsticks on his way out the door. Classy. Then he just proceeds to ride his bike around the Pizza Hut and past my window. I can’t figure out if he’s being really creepy or just trying to burn some calories on his 15 minute break. I go up to pay the bill, the blonde asks me if everything was alright. I tell her not really, I waited half an hour for an order of breadsticks and I was only customer in the place. She generously offers to take $2 off my bill.
When I later relate this story to acquaintances the general response is the same – “What do you expect, you went to Pizza Hut.”
Touche. Lesson learned.