I've been looking for someone who looks like you
I've apparently lived here too long. Some people get their part-skim latte every morning or frequently sidle up to a favorite bar, but I've never been a "regular" anywhere. I suspect it has a lot to do with my desiring constant change. Regular = bo-ring. Thus, I've been quite surprised at these recent interactions.
one: During july, Katie and I were a bit obsessive about watching tour de france coverage. Unfortunately, le Tour isn't the giant ratings draw of, say, monday night football or even the special olympics curling competition. So we had some difficulty finding places that would willingly turn their TVs for us. We finally settled in at the red hawk in central ann arbor, where they also had good beer, killer sangria, and a big carafe of peanuts at the bar. yum and yum. By the third or fourth time coming in the normally hawkish ID checker waved us on and the bartender was switching the station before we'd even sat down. No words were exchanged other than drink orders. It was a nice, mafia-like exchange of information through glances and nods.
B: I go to this little cafe near work at least once a week, for lunch or just to escape the office life and get some caffeine-fueled work done. It's called bombadill's, which I like for its nerdy lord of the rings reference, and the staff there seem generally happy and interesting. About five months ago I was reading this book about Detroit. The woman behind the counter asked me if it was any good, but I'd just started reading it so wasn't really sure at that point. I promptly forgot about this exchange. About three months later she was waiting on me and said, "hey--you were reading that Detroit book. How did it turn out?" I was a bit taken aback by the recognition and could barely remember the book at all, and could only reply "Um, it was...it was okay. Sorta.....I dunno. Okay."
iii: on saturday, we stopped into bombadill's for a quick lunch. The owner (who I've never spoken to other than to order food, but I know he's the owner because he seems to care the most and runs around like a jackrabbit at lunchtime) is serving us. I order my sandwich and a decaf. He starts to prepare our food and drinks and Katie says to me, "Wow, you're really serious about this decaf thing." "I'm trying." "How long have you been doing it?" and I quietly reply, "Um...since yesterday?" The owner, his back to us, laughs a bit and interjects, "I was gonna say...." (I think he'd served me a regular coffee maybe two days before).
I've never worked in the service industry, but I'm getting this paranoid android feeling that they know you. They know you. Even if you think they don't. Like the caterers in fight club: don't fuck with them. They prepare your food.
one: During july, Katie and I were a bit obsessive about watching tour de france coverage. Unfortunately, le Tour isn't the giant ratings draw of, say, monday night football or even the special olympics curling competition. So we had some difficulty finding places that would willingly turn their TVs for us. We finally settled in at the red hawk in central ann arbor, where they also had good beer, killer sangria, and a big carafe of peanuts at the bar. yum and yum. By the third or fourth time coming in the normally hawkish ID checker waved us on and the bartender was switching the station before we'd even sat down. No words were exchanged other than drink orders. It was a nice, mafia-like exchange of information through glances and nods.
B: I go to this little cafe near work at least once a week, for lunch or just to escape the office life and get some caffeine-fueled work done. It's called bombadill's, which I like for its nerdy lord of the rings reference, and the staff there seem generally happy and interesting. About five months ago I was reading this book about Detroit. The woman behind the counter asked me if it was any good, but I'd just started reading it so wasn't really sure at that point. I promptly forgot about this exchange. About three months later she was waiting on me and said, "hey--you were reading that Detroit book. How did it turn out?" I was a bit taken aback by the recognition and could barely remember the book at all, and could only reply "Um, it was...it was okay. Sorta.....I dunno. Okay."
iii: on saturday, we stopped into bombadill's for a quick lunch. The owner (who I've never spoken to other than to order food, but I know he's the owner because he seems to care the most and runs around like a jackrabbit at lunchtime) is serving us. I order my sandwich and a decaf. He starts to prepare our food and drinks and Katie says to me, "Wow, you're really serious about this decaf thing." "I'm trying." "How long have you been doing it?" and I quietly reply, "Um...since yesterday?" The owner, his back to us, laughs a bit and interjects, "I was gonna say...." (I think he'd served me a regular coffee maybe two days before).
I've never worked in the service industry, but I'm getting this paranoid android feeling that they know you. They know you. Even if you think they don't. Like the caterers in fight club: don't fuck with them. They prepare your food.
random bits cobbled together by j-dub
2 Comments:
I was just talking about this with some friends. I worked in the service industry for about 15 years. When I was younger, I would stop frequenting a place once they knew my order. I don't know why it freaked me out so much. As a waiter or barista, I always loved regulars who were nice and unassuming.
this from bri, regarding his servitude at a nyc restaurant codenamed "useless": "i still recognize assholes i served at useless. i don't see any that i work with or for, which is a good thing, but i see them [restaurant patrons] down here. a lot. and i remember how they acted."
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