Going to the desert next week..

There are some who seem to me to be content with very little; content to have jobs that require their days and then content to pass their evenings and nights in whims of entertainment, modest friendships, mediocre romance or religion. They don't hope for much, content to walk. I like to walk. But I want wings to turn my stride into flight from time to time. I want passionate oblivion to come crashing into what's happening right now; for it to get all tangled up, perpetually. I want storms to always ruffle my feathers while the wind unfurls my wings.
My restlessness is not discontent. I do not feel condemned by restlessness but compelled by it. I am not thirsty in order that I may writhe in my thirst but so that I will seek out a drink. My soul goes to the desert because there are elements of nourishment there, not because it is barren.
Yet in the very barrenness lies that nourishment. And the nourishment is space. The space to stretch out all my limbs, to open my lungs, and to spread my questions freely and expansively -- nakedly even -- until they dry out and crack like the lips that uttered them, leaving me sore and finally silent enough to escape myself, unhurried and unharassed enough to collapse into something that is something like peace.

a rant

The menus have a sufficient, even significant, amount of selection to them at the restaurants I'm working for. The finer dining of the two ranges from a glorified tofu dish, to a goat cheese and portobello mushroom ravioli, right on through to the market priced fillet mignon, with several nods to the sea (scallops, salmon, a nightly seafood special) in between.

About a month ago the chef derived a burger that could hold its own with the other dishes, presumably in taste, and absolutely in presentation. The burger is speared with a stack of olives and grape tomatoes, grilled according to the customer's order, adorned with the perfect proportions of complimentary ingredients, and befriended by an ornate tin, lined with a billowing linen napkin, full of French fries seasoned with duck confit.

You wouldn't expect a hamburger to make its way on to the menu at an establishment like this one, but - coming from a devout vegetarian - this burger does itself well. I immensely enjoy setting it before a guest. The visual encounter alone frequently elicits "oohs" and "aahs".

Imagine my surprise, my disappointment, my aghast when I chanced upon something less than appreciation the other night. It was not chagrin or criticism or disapproval that I encountered. I would have welcomed such a response in place of the one I received after setting the delicately crafted dish down in front of a guest.

"Thanks." And without taking so much as a pause, a breath, a moment to actually intend the gratitude just offered, "Could I have some ketchup?"

Some ketchup? You want some ketchup to go with your twenty-five dollar hamburger and fries? Are you a little worried that the chef back there in his "kiss the cook" apron might have, sometime during his culinary education in Paris, failed to learn how to make the food taste good on its own? You a bit nervous that he forgot to include something that would have made the meal better? I'll go ask him for a side of ketchup... and get slapped in the face for insulting him. No, I won't ask him, I'll just see if I can scrounge up some ketchup packets in the back, somewhere next to the creme brulee, or the fondue, or the bruschetta, or the olive tapenade. Honestly, you want some ketchup?

I thought all of that right away, but no more than that because she kept opening her mouth wider and wider and managed to display her ignorance more completely, "And some mustard... and," she looked to a friend, "Should we get some mayo? And some mayo."

It was pretty well precisely at that moment that I went ahead and stopped believing that the customer is always right. The customer isn't always right. The customer isn't always anything. There is potential for the customer to be right, or gracious, or naive, or rude. There are a lot of possibilities. One thing I have come to expect from time to time in the midst of my interactions with human beings is an attitude of entitlement. But the perfectly horrid coupling of entitlement and rash ignorance was nearly more than I could stomach. That the customer is always right is a dangerous myth marinated in flattery. It holds no true merit.

I do believe in customer service, in lovingly wanting what's best for other individuals. I don't believe in telling someone outright that they are stupid (even when the occasion implies it). I cordially tried to talk her out of ruining the artwork that had just been placed in front of her. I tried to talk her into perhaps waiting and trying the food before conceptualizing how she (also a credentialed culinary expert?) might better it. You don't let someone do themselves harm without a bit of a struggle, some effort at interference. Nonetheless, sometimes you end up squirting each of an assortment of condiments into little silver ramekins, arranging them on a small white plate, keeping a smile on your face, and quietly lamenting the poor soul's demise.