Serving Pretencular Suburbia

My parents are pretencular.

I know I've railed on them a lot, but they offer themselves up so easily for a finer inspection of my nuclear family. Yes, I can already hear you saying, "Shut the hell up about your parents, Ryan. We already know they are (this) or (that)." Well, now you don't have to settle, because pretencular is this and that! A compound of pretentious and particular, it describes their unreasonable expectations for service personnel. And since I'm a hypocrite and a pushover, (hypover? pushocrite?) this entry partially applies to me too.

If they've been to a certain restaurant more than three times, they'll waltz in like washed-up celebrities, expressing outrage when the staff fails to recognize and patronize them. If they don't get free appetizers, the tip gets cut down. If they don't get at least a five-minute conversation involving recommendations as well as small talk, it drops again. You can probably guess what happens if the food doesn't come out exactly to order. We usually have these awkward restaurant moments when I wish I were sitting at another table gawking as someone else's mother asks to Speak to the Manager.

For instance, we were at Bridges many years ago, at an age when the only concept I had of the place was that swanky restaurant from a scene in Mrs. Doubtfire. I recall a cross-dressing Robin Williams performing the Heimlich maneuver on his ex-wife's new boyfriend, projecting a piece of food across the dining area onto an unsuspecting victim's plate. My mother sent her Seared Ahi Fillet back because it was medium rare, when she had asked for it to be well done. They apologized for the discrepancy in tastes, assuring her that Ahi served rare was all the rage in the world of the culinary elite, hinting that her portion was probably even a little overcooked. She refused their "style," demanding and eventually receiving a charred scaly lump that might have, at one time, been blissfully riding the warm currents off the sunbathed coasts of Hawaii. Now, just another squandered chunk of meat on an affluent but uncultured suburbanite's plate.

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OK, maybe that was a little dramatic, but you see, pretencular- not quite pretentious, crossed with a misaligned sense of particularity. I took the brunt of this pretencularity tonight when I, once again, decided to cook dinner for the family. Since it was rather warm today, I figured a pair of soups would make a light meal: Spicy Basil Pea and a Chilled Cucumber-Avocado. I spent over two hours in the kitchen, during which my brother and his friend complimented the pleasant smells wafting about, before they left the house. I was eventually rewarded with smiles and sounds of contentment at the first taste of the Basil Pea soup. When my parents finished, they sat back with their wine as I prepared the chilled soup. I swirled some light yogurt on the surface and then arranged a few scallion slices in a pinwheel on top of each swirl. This was a glorious masterpiece with pictures to prove it.

My mother poked her spoon at the yogurt swirl and asked me why it was cold. "I always see my soups as... hot." Averting her gaze, she set her spoon down on a napkin, and I was immediately taken aback. I wanted to lash out, "I don't think someone who considers five-ingredient canned casserole to be a dinner has the right to turn their nose up at chilled soup." I just gritted my teeth and took her bowl for myself. She then somehow gathered the nerve to ask, "What else did you make?" I glanced up and told her, "That's it. If you want something else, you can make it yourself." She then retorted, in quick succession, "I'm a grown-up; I have a job; I can drive."

I hesitated for an instant, trying to trace some vestige of relevance from one to the next, and failing, I replied, "So can you write your own performance reviews*?" She resorted directly to three more rapid-fire non sequiturs, "I have a job to support you guys; I love the new exercise pants I bought this morning; how was the lunch meat I bought this week?" She looked crestfallen when I replied that the meat was just the same as every other week. Again with the pretencularity, she upholds sensibilities about pre-packaged meats, (which she doesn't even eat,) while turning up her nose at chilled soup. I suddenly realize that all her non sequiturs are connected by monetary value and employment, recurring themes with my parents.

*Her job periodically requires her to write performance reviews for her underlings. She usually gets the rest of the family to write them for her. Starting a few years ago, I refused, saying it was immoral for me to write anything that could result in firing people I had never supervised, much less met in my life. She threw a fit and then glared at my dad to see if he would help scold me. His miserable failure to come to the rescue meant that, since then, I've been able to avoid text box templates with word banks full of synonyms for "productive" and "effective."

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My mother is not the only example of pretencularity. Last weekend, we were having brunch at the crepe place in Walnut Creek. If you've ever been there, you'll understand the sort of laid-back cafe atmosphere it has. While the crepes are decent, by no means should you be expecting gourmet food or professional Italian barista service. Maybe my father didn't get the memo, because when the waitress came up and took our drink orders, my father pressed for an "orange cappuccino." The waitress raised an eyebrow, and replied in slightly-accented English, "We have orange juice, and we have cappuccino." My dad took apparent offense, looking left then right with an expression that read, 'How dare she!? Does she even know who I am?' My mother stepped in and ordered a cappuccino for him.

As the waitress walked away, my father argued, "Hey, why did you do that? I wanted an orange cappuccino!" My mother explained that it had been on the drink menu at this place they'd had brunch a few weeks ago, and it wasn't served everywhere. My dad wouldn't have it. "But it can't be that hard! They have all those flavored syrups lined up on the shelf! Make cappuccino! Pump orange syrup in! Done!" My dad was getting really worked up, and, as I let my gaze wander across the cafe, I noticed couples in their twenties casting the occasional curious glance in our direction. As soon as my eyes met with the mother of the Chinese family seated in the corner diagonal from us, she turned to her children, probably lecturing, "Look at that man." A boy and a girl, both around eight or nine, took a quick peek over their shoulders and turned back. "When you grow up, you will not embarrass our people like he is doing right now." They nodded in shameful agreement.

To add to the situation, my dad was wearing one of his favorite outfits: a polo shirt tucked into pleated khaki shorts that are way too short and boat shoes. My dad has never lived in the Northeast. He has never owned a boat, let alone operated any sort of nautical vessel aside from a motorboat in the local reservoir. "That man is trying to be like white demon," I could see her out of the corner of my eye, staring at our table, muttering under her breath, "Bak gwai." Then, we get the bill, which is about $25. My dad drops a hundo.

He did the same at a McDonald's in Benicia back when we still lived there, back when I still ate fast food. Take a moment to envision this fine establishment; rest assured, there's no such thing as "the good part of town" in Benicia. The worker held the bill up to the light for a moment before shouting with what I now recognize as mock-joy, "Thank you Mister Benjamin!" She kissed the bill and showed it to a couple of the other workers before walking back to the register and handing it back to my father. "Sorry, sir, but we don't accept hundreds here," she said through her teeth, pointing at the sticker on the back of the register as she tried to stifle a fit of laughter.

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You might surmise from these anecdotes that I usually side with the staff. In actuality, working for several months in a college dining hall probably doesn't allow me that privilege, but it at least gave me some insight regarding the foodservice industry. My job description should have read something like this: Cover your coworkers' asses when they neglect their duties; take over when they are too weak to lift crates; clean up the messes they leave; serve Dim Sum. I'm serious. I did my job well, smiling and chatting with customers, "Yeah I like Thursday and Ted Leo, too! Salad Fingers? Absolutely. Bring a frisbee and I'll meet you guys on Rawlings after my shift!" Oftentimes, when I would meet new people through classes or mutual friends, even before Hi, I would get, "Hey, aren't you... the Dim Sum Guy?" Yep. That was me. But I never got a raise or promotion, while those coworkers whose asses I covered became supervisors. The manager told me it was simply because I worked fewer hours per week. But I got a hell of a lot more done in my two shifts per week than they did in their five. Besides, I had 24 credits one semester and 21 the next, along with Chimes and Beketsev, so more shifts were a no go.

That would explain why I'm so appreciative when service personnel go a little above and beyond, or when they do exactly what their job entails, so that someone else doesn't have to pick up the slack for them. (I'm not bitter at all. Can't you tell?) Just last week (Friday the 9th?), we had a great experience at Sweet Tomatoes - a buffet restaurant with an intense salad bar and plenty of hot dishes and soups to choose from. One of my friends who doesn't typically drink to excess told me that she wanted to get shitfaced. Of course I was the one to call. She asked me to be DD and I agreed, only slightly grudgingly because the other person we went out with can't drive. We decided Sweet Tomatoes would be a great meal before a DYL night, so we loaded up on the greens and hot buffet items. When we were about to get dessert, a woman wearing a polo embroidered with the company's Catering logo came over to our table and asked if we'd like to win some coupons. Who doesn't like free stuff? We agreed, and she started telling us riddles, counting games, and word games. After about 45 minutes of laughter and free entertainment involving spoons and fingers (no, not like that), she handed over some coupons and said, "Wait right here, I gotta show you guys something."

She returned bearing several plastic sleeves with what looked like worksheets from middle school that had been through the photocopier a few too many times. "This..." she paused and gently caressed one of the sleeves, signaling that these were her treasured possessions, "This is Holiday Bingo." It was a simple bingo innovation, where numbers were almost entirely replaced by song lyrics and holiday greetings. To play, you picked 20 or so blocks, and you won if she called all of yours. She started singing "I Want You Back" by Jackson 5 when we got to the Valentine's Day page. We joined in but quickly burst out laughing, the tables around us chuckling as well. "If I call a number or something and you can't find it, I can tell you which sticker it's next to. Here, I'll show you." She pulled out the St. Patrick's Day page and called out, "24!" and looked around, pretending to check if anyone had gotten Bingo. "Don't know where 24 is? Well, then I can tell you, 24 is by the leprechaun!" Best. Buffet. Ever.

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Don't get me wrong, Sharon was awesome, but, like everyone else, I've had some bad experiences with service personnel. Unlike my parents, I lower the tip for legitimate reasons, like a bartender giving me attitude, as if they are doing me a personal favor by listening to my order and pouring a weaker drink than I asked for. Hey, I might look Asian, but it takes a lot more than a (case of) light beer to shake me up. Even if I were a lightweight, I'm still a paying customer, and if I appreciated your pour, I would tip you well enough to cover the mess I'd have left in the bathroom or in the bushes outside. Or, hey, remember that time there was a splinter in my bacon burger? It was entirely separate from the toothpick used to hold the burger together, firmly fixed in the bottom bun, subsequently puncturing my lip. The waiter apologized, and he sent the manager to our table, even though it was only Chili's. I respected that, but prior to the splinter incident, the waiter had been wholesale fixated on flirting with one of his female coworkers.

Several times in checkout lines at the bookstore and grocery store, I've encountered some hostility. A couple years ago, I was at the Cornell Store, patiently waiting in the cordon maze to purchase my overpriced math textbooks. The girl in front of me didn't see the open register, so I pointed it out to her. She was a little shocked but made her way over cautiously. I smiled and confidently thought to myself, 'Must be a freshman.' I then proceeded to the next open register and was met by an astounding display of impoliteness and lack of professionalism. When I set my books down on the counter, the lady just stared blankly ahead and mouthed hello. I said, "Hi, how's it going?" She swiped my student I.D. and mumbled so quietly that I could barely make out, "How are you doing today?"

Grinning idiotically, as I do so well, I respond, "I'm alright, but a little tired. How are you?" She hands back my I.D. card and finally makes eye contact, in fact glaring at me. "How are you paying today?" Her prosodic stress tells me that she is clearly repeating herself, that I clearly misheard her the first time. She must have missed the day in Customer Service 101 when they taught small-talk and cop-out responses like our modern "not much". She must have also missed the Learn How to Smile day. She instead insists on repeating the phrase, How Are You Paying Today? Maybe that was the only day she was in attendance.

Mind you, there's been no line behind me this whole time, and it's pretty early in the morning, when people are just starting their shifts, so she can't really be in much of a hurry to move me along. Maybe I'm just as pretencular as my parents, and I'm nitpicking at her. I give her the benefit of the doubt, deciding that she'd had a rough morning, and I was just another Cornell brat with his parents' plastic. But as I blush and pull out my credit card, (which is linked to my own account,) her face goes blank again. My money has quelled her anger. I am equal parts embarrassed and flabbergasted. I am embargasted. I am flabberassed.

Source: http://wheninthebay.blogspot.com/2010/07/serving-pretencular-suburbia.html