Revenge is a Dish Best Served… Flatulent

It’s Thursday lunch and the only three Americans, Mary, Derek and I, are all working doubles. While we all get along with our imported coworkers very well, our interactions are different when it’s just us. Could it be the American Bubble? Nah, I chalk it up to good ol’ pop culture.

“Table 14 is horrendous,” said Derek, our busser. “They are the constipation to my mastication.”

I glanced over at the table of five and just about every preconceived notion of costive customers was confirmed–a group of older, seemingly rich housewives and their variations of Dooney & Bourke handbags. My feminist side wouldn’t allow improper assumptions of rich older women as housewives, so I checked the time. Two o’clock in the afternoon. They’d already been sitting there for almost an hour and so far:

-they had just finished appetizers
-each ordered a glass of chardonnay instead of requesting a bottle
-weren’t paying any attention to their server’s repeated shouting of whether or not they were ready to order entrées.

“Waiter! Waiter!” one woman yelled across the restaurant, waving her hands around like a mentally-handicapped child who just saw her teacher outside of school. “More wine!”

Yep, definitely housewives. Probably from the same cul-de-sac.

Derek grumbled to himself at the drink station, filling their individually-ordered glasses of wine.

“I’m not going to tell them that it’s a better deal to just order a bottle,” he said. “And when I walk by their table, maybe I’ll leave them a little gas.”

He sauntered away with his tray full of glasses. After passing out the wine, he leaned his butt towards them, giving me a coy look from over his shoulder. I don’t think he actually did it, but I picture the many times I’ve smelled strange odors in public. Could I have pissed someone off to the point of them farting on me?

“I’ve done it before,” said Mary, another coworker.

“Really?”

“I mean yeah, if a table pisses me off enough,” she said, “I’ll just whisk by their table and–fart!”

Mary’s worked there a little longer than me. She knows all the tricks of passive-aggressive revenge for our more unpleasant customers, like bringing out takeout containers instead of boxing up food for them, seating repeating offenders in the worst tables and simply placing the offending tables at the bottom priority. Nothing health-code violating, just subtle reparation. But nothing like farting on a table.

“Don’t they eventually figure out that it’s you?” I asked.

“I don’t care. It’s not like they’re really going to say anything,” she said. “What would they say to me, ‘Excuse me miss, but did you just fart on me?‘”

“I guess that would be stupid,” I said.

“Exactly. I deny it and make them look like the idiots they are,” she said.

I watched her walk towards her tables, checking for a slight grimace from the patrons at said tables. While I didn’t see or hear anything highlighting at particular disturbance, I can’t help but wonder whether my tip averages have gone down due to my asshole coworkers or if it was simply because of poor service.

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5 Responses to “Revenge is a Dish Best Served… Flatulent”

  1. Constipation to my mastication. Great line…even if I don’t know what it means.
    So You Want To Be a Banquet Manager

  2. Love it. Want to exchange links?

    GH

  3. Sometimes you need to crop dust!

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