How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

There aren't many places for a girl to stop for a bite en route to work. Not around here, anyway. When a new joint opened a few months back, I was elated. Over the moon. Ecstatic. I'm familiar with the group and confident I could finally get a coffee and a muffin with the peace of mind that it hadn't recently been reconstituted in a microwave.

(I eat the shit out of reconstituted food things, especially the apple fritters from a certain local gas station chain).

This morning I even grabbed a quarter on my way out the door, guaranteeing to avoid the $10 "but I was just stopping for a second" parking meter damnation.

This place calls itself a cafe, but is unlike any cafe I've ever know. I've never been to Morocco or the Maldives or Singapore and in my mind this place has em all beat, on the rails, got nothin. Crazy beautiful, detailed, and nuanced. The decor is unmatchable.

So this morning, bolstered by my parking victory, I wanted to treat myself to a muffin. It's decent, healthy-ish, and has little crunchy bits, which I'm into. Also at $3.95 I consider it a bargain, as it's enough muffin for two breakfasts. Or, let's be honest, second breakfast.

I walk up to the gleaming pastry counter - awash in curds and swirls and ganache and gold dusted raspberries - feeling like I can't possibly belong here but YOU HAVE MY MUFFIN and so here I am. The young woman at the counter was staring at me, blinking, looking down at the register, looked back up at me. Blink. There I stood. Blink. After a few desperately awkward minutes I had to break the silence -

"Are you...can I order from you? I'm sorry". (I don't know why I apologized)

"Yes."

".....can I just have that muffin to go?"

"Yes."

"Do you guys have any juices...? I need something green in my life." (Desperate laugh)

"Yes."

I'll spare you the remainder of the transaction, as none of it improved. I basically ran away from the cafe with its hand polished, hand carved floor tile imported from wherever.

I know. I know. It's just a goddamn muffin. Not even a great muffin, just a softball-sized excuse for fiber that doesn't come packaged in a gummy bear. (Does anyone else think those are super depressing? More for another day.)

I keep rolling around in my head how *I* was the one who felt awkward, and wrong, and needed to leave ASAP. Do others feel that way? Does everyone feel that way? It's a muffin, not a blood transfusion. Who really cares?

We should care. I care. Those stupid hand polished tiles should care. We're living in Romanesque times here yet we've lost all semblance of basic communication, history, and lest I say it, hospitality.

Lately I've been feeling like I get better customer service at abject shithole dives. Just the cruddiest, crappiest, most Sysco-fueled enterprises of them all. But you know what, I never feel awkward. I never feel like I'm not Instagram famous so I can't hang. Never feel like I have to apologize for their lack of a greeting, a smile, or god forbid a conversation. Never have to climb over a 4" gap between impossibly small tables cubby-holed together. Apologizing. Does the girl working the pastry counter understand what a massive impact someone in her role can have on her community? I KNOW the answer here is no, but when did that happen? Restaurant family, isn't that why we're here? The ONLY reason we're here?

I passed a billboard the other day advertising...well honestly I'm not sure what it was advertising, but it showed a sullen looking food service employee with the caption "would you like fries with that?" Totally damning, totally elitist, totally unnecessary. I'm by no means anti-education or raising yourself up but why shame? Why are we shaming ANYONE for working!? Isn't it bad enough that we work ourselves to death at the hands of emotional and mental beatdowns from men wearing $1000 fur-lined Gucci loafers? But no, that's not enough. But let's hammer that shame home by reinforcing the notion that we are subservient. Our jobs aren't good enough. Our lives aren't good enough. Not in this era of "Self Care" as a privilege, not a right.

We've lost it.

I've gotten off track.

My husband and I recently stopped into a tourist-y place that's only open seasonally, for a couple of drinks and a snack. Just a change of pace. Frozen seafood, frozen margaritas, great sunsets. Party deck. Nautical decor. Wet naps. You know the place. I recognized a server who'd helped us last season, a young kid of maybe 25 called Josh. Not only did he remember us, but he remembered our drink order, and came running over to shake our hands when he saw us in another section. Based solely on that encounter and a passable Caesar salad, we went back a few weeks later. Same thing - joyful greeting, lovely conversation. Impeccable service. Was the food good? Jesus lord no. We joke the food was better when their kitchen burnt down and they resorted to a cobbled together outdoor grill to get the job done. But you know what, we'll continue to go back. Until Josh figures out he can do better. Then we'll go where he is.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe there isn't a better. Or the perceived better isn't, but we tolerate it for the sake of inclusion. Getting the reservation, getting the likes, the pictures, the attention. The goddamn attention.

The most popular restaurant here (here is wherever you are), has a wine list that that names "Ashley Olsen", "tennis courts" and "gel pens" as tasting notes.

I probably apologized to them, too.

See you at the gas station, y'all. Might not be good but it sure ain't bad.