Tuesday, September 21, 2004



<br>
3:16 PM<br> 
<strong>Bald in the Hood:</strong> <em>A suburban man's survival in Chicago</em> <br />The Stuttering Waiter<br /><br />"What are you hungry for?" my friend Cyndi asked me last night. <br /><br />"I could do some Chinese food." <br /><br />"I don't know where any good places are for that," she replied. "What about pizza?" <br /><br />"I'm always up for a pie. I wanted some last night but opted for a burger. It was crusted in peppercorns with pepper jack cheese and came with shoe string fries. Very good." <br /><br />"For some reason I've been craving Mexican lately," she revealed. "Like fajitas. They sound great right now." <br /><br />In a span of about three minutes, Cyndi and I covered cuisines from six countries, if you consider the burger being from Germany, the fries from France and the pepper jack from America's Wisconsin. (Just checked on the burger. I asked John's mother-in-law, Nancy, who's visiting from Arizona, about the origin of the burger and my guess was correct. She's all-knowing and just happened to watch a special on the food network last night about burgers and their German roots. How coincidental!) <br /><br />Cyndi and I settled on an Italian place near her. <br /><br />"They have the best brick oven pizza in the city," she announced. "I saw it featured on Check, Please." She watches this show all the time and frequents the places that get good reviews. Last night's choice was Pizza D.O.C. "They even had the oven shipped here from Italy." <br /><br />We were seated right beside four women and a 10-month-old baby. Cute as a button but neither of us were in the mood for the kid's antics. After all it wasn't Chucky Cheese. We were then escorted to a table on the opposite side of the room along the wall.  <br /><br />Our waiter approached our table to greet us. Within seconds I was quite thankful yet troubled by his presence and subsequent speech pattern. To say that he stuttered a little wouldn't be giving justice the greatest stutters of all time. This guy was a stuttering machine. It may have taken him 10 seconds to get out the "h" in hello. Being a server myself, I usually ask for their name. Not with this guy. Not a chance in hell. <br /><br />I could barely look at him. It's not that I was going to laugh.  Of course we know that was inevitable.  But it was his obvious struggle with almost every word that made it worse. His efforts caused the veins in his neck to bulge out. <br /><br />This seemed to not affect Cyndi in the least. She inquired about their selections of red wines by the glass. With each of his feeble yet applauded attempts to speak, our dining experience was delayed. We had, in turn, become the waiters. <br /><br />"Are you fucking kidding me? Did you just hear him? Don't ask any questions and make this harder on all of us. Just pick one," I said. <br /><br />"Stop being an asshole," she yelled. "He stutters.  He's not deaf. He can hear you being an asshole." But she continued to inquire. My face was glued to the menu, unable to visually witness their conversation. I almost wished I was back near the baby where my discomfort would be replaced with innocent waves and acceptable giggles. However, I was uncertain that the baby would grease the creative wheels quite the same way as a stuttering waiter could. <br /><br />I simply ordered a glass of chardonnay without any hesitation. A Mexican bus buy brought bread and water. For a minute I thought we were at mass. I also struggled to understand him, but would've preferred his dialect over our waiter's. <br /><br />"I took three years of Spanish in high school and have worked in restaurants for years," I whispered to Cyndi. "I could talk with him. There wasn't an Honors Stuttering class." <br /><br />She knew I would write about this. And I began doing so, right at the table. It was covered with a square white piece of paper and I ripped off the corner where my left elbow rested. <br /><br />"Put your notes away," she hurriedly demanded. "Here he comes." As if we were in grammar school and the teacher was walking by as our cheat sheets were out." <br /><br />I flipped the paper over and placed the pen on top of it. He dropped off our wine. Mine came in a small stemware glass while Cyndi's red came in a giant balloon glass. <br /><br />"Put a basket and some hot air in that thing and let's take a ride," I said. <br /><br />I really didn't know what to expect with the food, but knew that I wanted pizza. Cyndi thought we were going to split one. <br /><br />"No way," I said. "I'm starvin'. Haven't eaten all day. I'll eat the whole thing," I exclaimed. "You can have some if you want but get something else, too." <br /><br />She decided on a penne pasta dish. <br /><br />I chose a pie with sausage and mushrooms. I hate mushrooms, though, so much so that I asked the waiter if I could get green peppers in place of the mushrooms. <br /><br />"The mamamamamamamama-mushrooms are mimimimimimimimimi-mixed in with the sausage," he said. <br /><br />"That's fine. Please add green peppers to it then." <br /><br />Thankfully, he just nodded. I figured it would be awesome pizza, so the mushrooms would be overlooked. Or maybe large enough to simply pick out. <br /><br />The pizza came before Cyndi's pasta. Having served many pasta dishes in my day and knowing they take little time to prepare, I was surprised by this. Hers arrived a minute or two later. <br /><br /><img src="http://www.shaveyourhead.com/2004_Pictures/June1st/921_Pizza.bmp"><br /><em>This is the pie and the pasta about which you're reading.</em><br /><br />"This thing's not even cut," I said in a puzzling tone. "How the hell am I supposed to eat it?" <br /><br />"That's the way they do it in Italy," Cyndi said. "Just rip a piece off and eat it." <br /><br />I was still somewhat distraught. The waiter came by a few minutes later to see if everything was okay. I hadn't yet cut into the pie. <br /><br />"You really don't cut this stuff for us?" I asked him as I held a small steak knife in my hand. <br /><br />"Well you can if you want," he said. "Cut it into squares or however you want." <br /><br />I was stunned. He didn't stutter once in that sentence. Crystal clear, almost to the point of being a speech pathologist. <br /><br />"Maybe we cured him," I said. "How cool would that be? Hopefully he'll comp our meals then." <br /><br />I wasn't impressed with the pizza. I'm not a fan of thin crust at all, brick over or otherwise. The cheese was on top of the sauce and then the sausage, mushrooms and green peppers were on top of the cheese.  But I was hungry and ate it anyway. Like they say, pizza's like sex.  Even when it's bad it's good. Not when you're paying for them both, though. <br /><br />I tore the pie apart and ate it like a taco. <br /><br />"You should try this," I said to Cyndi. "It's kinda like an Italian fajita." I then ran to my car and grabbed my camera. <br /><br />"You're not going to take a picture of him," Cyndi said as I excused myself from the table. <br /><br />"No. I'm taking a picture of the pizza. What the hell good would it do to take a picture of him? You can't see stuttering in a picture." <br /><br />As I headed toward the car I remembered that I had a voice recorder on my new cell phone and a video recording feature on my camera. I laughed about it but knew I couldn't bring myself to ask our waiter to talk on command. I could've hidden the phone but opted against that, too. I figured capturing it through words would be best. <br /><br />Our waiter made another visit just as I returned. <br /><br />"How's eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-everthing?" <br /><br />"Fine, thank you," I replied. <br /><br />"Shit, he's not fixed," I said in dismay. <br /><br />"If this keeps up I'm going to ask him to write on the paper tablecloth and we'll reply in writing, too." <br /><br />He came back a few more times. It seemed as if in every other visit he spoke clearly. That threw me off. <br /><br />"Why isn't he a cook or a computer programmer?" I asked Cyndi. "There's not a lot of talking in those fields." <br /><br />"Or a writer? People who don't like to speak or those who can't usually write well. I bet he's a master at e-mails." <br /><br />"You're such an asshole," she said again. <br /><br />"I nanananananananana-know." <br /><br />We laughed, like people do when they see someone else fall. As long as they're okay it's funny. But even if they are hurt, a few chuckles are permitted initially. <br /><br />Seriously, though, about his occupational options, in being a waiter at a relatively nice restaurant, you have to be able to effectively communicate with the customer. Your livelihood depends on it. The menu was extensive and questions should be expected from the customers, especially the first-timers. How many one-armed lumberjacks have you seen? How ‘bout any one-legged speed skaters? A blind tour guide? Deaf music critic? All I'm saying is play to your strengths and make work easier. <br /><br />There were times that it got so bad that we guessed what he was trying to say. We guessed right for the most part and even he seemed relieved. <br /><br />Cyndi picked at my pizza while also enjoying her pasta. We finished all but a sliver of pie. <br /><br />"You want some tiramisu?" I asked her. <br /><br />"Sure. It's like fried chicken for us," she said. <br /><br />The last time we had dinner was at an Italian place and we ordered tiramisu. We had a nice looking, non-stuttering waitress that night. For some reason Cyndi and I have also eaten fried chicken on a few random occasions, so now we can add tiramisu to our list. <br /><br />He presented the check and a few moments later I place my credit card in the black holder. <br /><br />"Do you nenenenenenene-need change?" he asked, not seeing the card behind the check. He corrected himself and was off to authorize it. <br /><br />"That's a no-no," I said to Cyndi. "You don't ask people if they need some change, especially with a stutter. You say "I'll get some change for you" and give them the option of saying yes or no." <br /><br />"Hmmm. I didn't know that," she said. <br /><br />He brought the receipt back and then we were off. <br /><br />"Thank you," he said. <br /><br />"There he goes again. Not even a glitch in the delivery" <br /><br />I gave the baby a high-five as we passed by. <br /><br />"Thanks for understanding. You guys need to sit over there next time."<br />
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