>>stripped of natural charm

I got to work at 5 and it had been slow all day, which is entirely usual as Easter is a big family feast day and everyone eats at home. Everyone, that is, except Crazy Vegetarian Family.

They were my first table of the day: a father, a mother dressed in traditional Indian garb, and four little girls. Since it had been slow, the left side of the restaurant was empty and the right side was being used. They, of course, opted for the left side. The six of them sat in the booth and the father spoke to me.

“Before we begin,” he said, in a thick Indian accent, “I have a request for you.”
“Sure,” I said pleasantly.
“My family and I, we are strict vegetarians for religious reasons. We will order your pizzas on the condition that the cooks wash their hands before making our pizza because we do not want meat contaminating the vegetables. We want the knife that cuts the pizza to not have touched pizzas that contain meat. Do they use their hands or something else to put cheese on the pizza?”
“They use a cup,” I said. “That cup only touches cheese.”
“Thank you. That is good. If these requests are not met to our satisfaction, we will walk out. Is that okay?”
“That’s not a problem at all.”
“We would like two large pizzas with just vegetables, please. And a pitcher of Pepsi.”
“Sure. Anything else?”
“The salad bar… are those utensils used to touch meat?”
“No they’re not.”
“That is good. We will have that as well, please.”
“Alright. Do you want breadsticks before your pizza comes? Anything else I can get for you?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
He looked hesitant, and after I placed the order I asked him if he would like to come and take a look at how the pizzas were made to ensure he was satisfied with the whole operation. He stood at the counter as I went back and explained things to him:
“This is where we put the cheese on,” I said, holding up a cup. “No one’s hands ever touch the cheese.” I walk down about half a foot and slide up the metal door covering the vegetables. “This is the holding area for the vegetables,” I said, and motioned to another closed door near it. “That’s where we keep the meat. The two don’t share cups or utensils and are kept in separate bins.”
He thanked me and went to sit back down.

When his pizzas were ready, I glanced over at his table and like a mindreader he stood up and came to the counter. I showed him the pizza slicer with the fresh blade in it and the two clean wooden paddles his pizzas would sit on.
“Are these okay?” I asked.
“That is all very good. Thank you.”
I served them their pizzas and asked them twice during the duration of the meal if everything was okay. They replied in the affirmative. The hard part was over.
I smiled a lot, talked to the wife, gave the girls crayons, and went above and beyond my normal cheerful service.
They paid for the bill, and Crazy Vegetarian Man said “Thank you for honoring us.”
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to bow or anything, so I just said “Thank you.”
Then, one by one, his four girls thanked me.
Such politeness I have never witnessed in my life.

I bussed their table after they had gone and was completely shocked at my tip.
One dollar and twenty-six cents.
It made me hot and angry and it took everything I had not to go toss sausage on them while singing songs about Jesus. One fucking dollar. That’s more of an insult than being completely stiffed. I did a good job with them, an outstanding job if I may say so myself, and was slapped in the face for “honoring” them.
In fact, I was so intent on “honoring” them that I didn’t concentrate fully on my other tables, one of which ALSO left me a dollar tip (but I completely forgot to give them their plates and their breadsticks so I deserved it). I understand tipping low for shitty service, and I’m more than willing to admit when I give it. I gave it to one table; it happens sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. And that’s fine with me because you can’t always be on the ball.
But when one is completely on the ball and gets gyped? What the hell!

Dear Crazy Vegetarian Man;
Tonight you came into the restaurant and I was unfortunate enough to wait on you. While you were polite and relatively unimposing, you tread harshly on my mood for the evening. I did my absolute best to serve you, obliged your slightly off-kilter requests, and you insult me by leaving me a one dollar tip.
I’m sorry. One buck plus twenty-six cents.
Surely you’ve been around the block long enough to realize that being stingy isn’t a great quality to have, especially when you receive outstanding service from everyone. I accomodated you readily and cheerfully, and while I’m not implying that I deserve special treatment for doing my job, it’s customary to actually TIP the waitress when you’re pleased with the service, as you claimed you were.
The next time you come into the restaurant I will not wait on you. I’m glad that I honored you and made your meal pleasant but your monetary appreciation of that was nil and I will NOT EVER AGAIN go out of my way for you just to be insulted in the way that you insulted me.
Ass.

Sincerely,
Denise