You don't get to call me a racist.

I'm a pancake waiter in the Midwest.

There's a certain kind of people who it's a pleasure to serve. They're pleasant to talk to. They order something off the menu without substitutions, and they decide quickly so they're ready when you are. They're satisfied with their meal. They pay for it happily, and they tip you well. They might be young or old, male or female, black or white, rich or poor, or anything in between. What they have that others don't is class. They have both the desire and the capacity to understand what your job is like and they take thoughtful steps to make sure your interaction with them doesn't add to your frustrations. And you do thoughtful things for them as well. You are constantly asking clarifying questions, reading people and anticipating preferences to ensure that your guests' experiences are as pleasant as possible.

There's another kind of people who ruin your day. They're disruptive, obnoxious and vulgar. They ignore you when you're ready to talk to them, and they yell across the restaurant at you while you're at other tables. They're not ready when they say they are and they hold you at their table while they decide. What they finally do order is so complicated with special requests and substitutions that the cook is guaranteed to make a mistake. They complain about the wait before they get their food and then they complain about their food the second it's in view. They demand that you remake something or remove something or discount something, and they never tip you. They might be young or old, male or female, black or white, rich or poor, or anything in between. What sets them apart is their complete lack of class. They treat you like a slave and they get offended if you don't act the part.

I give everybody exactly the same quality of service regardless of how well they treat me. I smile and say please whether or not you return the favor. I sprint across the restaurant for you whether or not you appreciate the effort. I dedicate exactly as much time to you as I do to all of my other tables regardless of how much I expect you to tip me. No matter how pleasant or offensive you are, the quality of service that I provide you never waivers. I pride myself on this.

So it's particularly upsetting to me when a table full of the crassest people you could ever hope to avoid, that's been rude to me since the second they walked through the door, decides to call me a racist. They will have to wait longer than they wanted for a table, and it isn't because they have a large party on a busy day, it's because I'm a racist. Their food will take longer to cook than they wanted, and it isn't because they ordered well done steaks, it's because I'm a racist. Or their food won't be prepared exactly the way they like it, and it isn't because they don't know how to order, or because they ordered something impossibly complicated, it's because I'm a racist. This used to happen at least once a week. It happens less frequently now, because I've gotten better at stroking the egos of the self righteously ignorant, but I'm over it.

You don't get to call me a racist.

You don't get to come into my restaurant flagrantly disregarding expected standards of behavior, reeking of weed, blasting club music on your phone, guffawing like a fog horn, yelling obscenities at me across the restaurant, screaming at people sitting 2 feet away from you sentences filled with more N-words than a Klan rally, sloppily and scarily hitting on every woman who strategically avoids you on her way to the bathroom, complaining about everything, demanding special treatment, intending to stiff me, and then on top if it all, accuse ME of being ignorant, and especially not on evidence as flimsy as the quality of your eggs.

You don't get to call me a racist, because while I'm not a racist, YOU ARE. Because if I were black, no matter how unjustifiably bad the service was, it would never occur to you to call me a racist. When you accuse me of being ignorant enough to hate you on sight, and petty enough to manifest my hate in the quality of service I provide you, when all you know about me is that I'm white, you are being racist. When the color of my skin is a factor in you determining the most likely explanation for why you are unsatisfied, you are being racist. When you make assumptions about my character based on the color of my skin...

YOU ARE BEING RACIST.

Final thoughts:

1. When I ask you how you want your steak prepared, don't shout at me that you want it “well done but not burnt” like it's a crime I've committed against you in the past. If my restaurant so consistently over cooks your steaks that you feel the need to specifically request that the cook please not fuck it up this time before I've even had a chance to ring it in, then just go to a different restaurant. Also, your steak isn't burnt, it's just dry. And it's dry because you ordered a lean cut well done. My cooks aren't your problem; reality is.
   
   
2. You can order your eggs “fried”, and you can order your eggs “over hard”, and depending on the restaurant you're in, those might even mean the same thing, but you can't order your eggs “fried hard”. That isn't a thing. Stop asking for it.
   
   
3. Dear smart friend, if class is a demonstration of empathy, which is a demonstration of self knowledge, which is a demonstration of virtue, then etiquette books are like cheat codes to help cowards pretend to be virtuous. Also, it just occurred to me that these books are used as a weapon against class itself. The crass and cowardly pretend that rules of etiquette are arbitrarily dictated by authors of books, rather than discovered through thoughtful interaction. Actually, expecting strict adherence to inherited rules to manipulate others into providing you with benefits, rather than expecting genuine and spontaneous acts of empathy to improve the lives of others around you, is just one more example of magical thinking. Next post?