A little more than two months ago, B and I stopped at one of our favorite local restaurants for dinner, and when I say “favorite,” I mean we go there a lot. They don’t know us on a first-name basis, but they know us by sight. The guy who served us that evening has served us many times before and has never given us any reason to cast a stink eye on his service, until two months ago.
When the time came to pay the check, B left her credit card on the table, right beside her. The waiter picked it up and brought it back to the table about five minutes later, tucked into the customary black wallet with the check. I was sitting in the chair farthest from the aisle; B was sitting on the aisle. The server reached over her, handed the check to me and said, “Thanks, and have a good rest of your day,” even though B’s name was on the credit card and she would have to sign for it. I guess it’s still assumed, even by servers who live and work in the twenty-first century, that the man always gets the check.
Was B just a teensy bit cheesed off by this? Oh, a tad. But she didn’t trust herself to say anything about it while she was still fuming, so she let it go that night, resolving to say something to the management if they didn’t it again.
Unbelievably, it happened again last night, and this time the server was a woman. We were at a different place this time, but still, it was a place we visit quite often. The server was relatively new, though; we have never seen her before, although we haven’t been there in a couple weeks. After we finished dinner, B set her credit card on a corner of the table closest to her. The server picked it up and returned it about five minutes later, stepping past B, who once again was sitting on the aisle, to hand it to me, the man, who was sitting against the wall. “Thanks, and have a great rest of your day,” she said to me, before leaving.
“DAYUM!” I said to B. “Dissed by a woman this time!” She was not well pleased.
How does this even happen in 2018? I mean, we’re not eating at high-end, four-star restaurants, but still, I would think that, in the interest of getting the biggest tip for the best service, the server would take the extra half-minute to look at the name on the card. I don’t look much like a Barbara, or at least I don’t think I do. It wouldn’t take much to figure out I’m not the one who has to sign the card, and return it to the right person.
This Is Drivel 