Efficiency on the Menu

“Hungry?” Bob asks as we climb the stairs to our favorite restaurant. This is just one of the ways, I realize that we differ—I go to a restaurant to enjoy the respite from housework, to relax and have someone else do the cooking, and Bob goes to….well, eat.

“Not really I say, But I’m sure I will be by the time we order and get our food.”

He knows exactly what he will have, he tells me.. Uhmm, yumm, chicken stew with dumplings. Me? I haven’t given it a thought.

The server is familiar, ‘Wendy’, her nameplate says. Bob has happy memories of her efficiency, she has happy memories of his generous tips.

Wendy leads us to a table on the right, beside the row of windows. The sun is streaming in across the booth, and I slide into its warmth—I loved the atmosphere in this place.

“What can I get you to drink?” Wendy’s right there, heels practically clicking, holding the large menus close to her body.

“I’ll have water to begin with, I tell her, as I take a menu. No ice please.” I know Bob will order a coke, which he always does. The drinks come within seconds, and she’s there again, ready to take our order.

“I know exactly what I’m having,” Bob says, “Chicken stew with dumplings, the larger order, not the small one” Wendy smiles approvingly.

“I’ll need a few minutes to look over the menu, thanks,” I say, a little annoyed at Bob for jumping the gun.

“Anything I can do to help? Are you thinking hot entrée, a salad, or soup and sandwich? Our special, perogies with sour cream are popular today.”

She continues to stand there. I continue reading, flipping the menu from front to back, and back again. A uncomfortable silence ensues.

“I was thinking I’d like a salad,” I finally say, looking at the selections which filled an entire page.

It’s her cue to jump into action. “Would you like a caesar, a spring salad, a roasted vegetable salad, or maybe an avocado salad, with tropical fruit? It’s good, one of my favorites.”

“Uh, I’m not sure, I just need a few more minutes.”

“Fine.” she says, snatching up Bob’s menu, giving him another smile, and leaving. She’s just being efficient, I think.

She was back before I could finish reading half a page. By now, I feel like a child in special class, struggling with dyslexia.

“How about a chef’s salad,” she says, “We make a very good one.” I nod. She plows on,

“You can have it with ranch dressing, balsamic, or we have a very nice raspberry dressing, with a hint of spice.”

“Umm, I’ll have the last one, I guess.” I murmur.

“The raspberry?”

“Yes,” I say firmly, closing the menu with a little slap, and leaning back in my seat. I might have crossed my arms.

“Just trying to get it right,” she snaps, finally leaving.

Bob notices my glum face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I don’t like to be rushed,” I say, “We’re retired, why not take our time?”

“Oh, give it up, Diane. She’s an efficient server, that’s all. Probably loves her job and wants to be good at it.”

We wait, look around. The restaurant begins to fill. The people beside us, are listening in, enjoying our little squabble. We make idle conversation, the weather, the decor, whatever.

When Wendy arrives, Bob’s plate steaming, mine cool and colorful, we dig in, happy to be finally eating.

I finish first, it was, after all, a small salad. Just as Bob is eyeing his last two dumplings, she comes sweeping by.

“You finished working on that?” she asks me.

“Yes, it was perfect,” I say. “Thanks.”

With one quick swoop, she gathers up Bob’s plate, pops my empty one on top, squashing the two remaining dumplings, and takes off for the kitchen.

Bob, his fork still in mid-air, is plainly flabbergasted, but gamely tries not to show it.

“Everything in moderation,” he grumbles, reaching for his wallet, “Even efficiency.”