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Steaming About Bad Service
by Gareth Fenley
One night at a restaurant, I noticed how
well I know the bussing stations and
kitchen entrances of America. The clash of
silverware dumped into a gray plastic tray,
drip-brewed coffee sizzling and burning on
a hot plate when a waiter prematurely grabs
the pot, the whiff of steamy air when
swinging doors are kicked open by some
one straining under a load of dirty plates.
And seated at the table with me, there's
never a man. Is the worst spot in certain
restaurants reserved for women, or what?
When dining at that table, I always try
to get a good look at the waiter when he or
she makes a first appearance. The whole
staff is going to beat a trail past me
throughout the meal, so I'd better be able to
flag down the right person when I need a
clean fork or the check.
I've been seated at that table when the
establishment is half empty. The host
guides my date and me past decorated
booths, away from the windows, into the
dark guts of the place, and just around the
comer where you'd expect to find a waste
basket or cigarette machine. Behold! Our
table.
"Women get bad service because they're
cheap tippers," anyone can tell you. To
undermine this stereotype, I and several
other lesbian friends always tip generously.
But I guess it's not working yet.
Last Friday, for instance, I treated
myself to a night out at a neighborhood
cafe. There weren't many other customers,
and I was seated right away at a nice table
by the window; so far, so good.
Then my waiter approached, a confident
young blond in a tuxedo shirt. "Something
from the bar?" he asked. "No, thanks," I
said, "but can you tell me what the specials
are?"
"They're on the board," he said, with a
gesture. By leaning my head 18 inches to
the right, up against the window glass, I
could see the board. The blond stood by
watching.
"What's the difference between the three
chicken specials?" I asked with a friendly
Byrd
Cont'd from page 10
...in the fall of 1978 / the klan
began / its "open recruitment" / in the
Boston City schools / and it was 1955
/ that a team of white professionals /
interviewed colored children / fro m
the Wayne County school system / as
to whether their mammas and daddies
/ was for integration / or segregation /
well, what I'm trying to get at / is that
in the last 30 odd years / of my life
span / there has occurred / a series of
events / which have culminated / in the
death and near dying / of Black
women / across the continent of
Amerika...
SV: Why the title A Distant Footstep
On the Plain!
SB: I was from Indiana. In a sense, it
is my being true to my roots.
SV: Which writers do you enjoy?
SB: Bessie Head, a South African, and
smile, resuming my upright position.
"Oh," he shrugged, "they all come with
pasta. And different kinds of marinara
sauce." Meanwhile, his attitude was saying
loud and clear: "Why should I waste my
time on this with you? You're going to go
right back to the menu and find something
for $3.99." Then he walked off.
I sat there, angry, wanting one of those
chicken specials but damned if I'd beg this
man for information. So I did something
I'd never done: I walked out. On the way,
I told the blond exactly why I was leaving.
He said, "Have a nice evening."
Then I drove to another restaurant
where I’d enjoyed the food and service
before. This place had customers lined up,
waiting for tables, so I waited 40 minutes
for one.
The one by the door to the kitchen.
But, hey, I can be very understanding
about these things when the dining room is
full and I’m empty. The waiter was a
pleasant fellow who brought me delicious,
hot food, as I relaxed in that familiar atmo
sphere of off-stage metal bashing and yells
between the cook and dishwasher.
The next morning, I stopped by the
neighborhood cafe to talk to the manager.
He apologized roundly for the surly blond's
behavior, and said another woman had also
complained about it. He said it had been
"too soon" to promote this new employee
from lunch duty to Friday night. And
lamented, "It's impossible to find good help
these days."
"I hate to say it," he confided, after we'd
talked a while; but he didn't seem to mind
saying it, "it's these queens."
I objected, saying that I'm a lesbian and
I know lots of gay men who don't treat
women like dirt. (And, I might have men
tioned, straight men who do.) The manag
er hastened to identify several gay mem
bers of his staff who are great with the cus
tomers. Apparently the good ones don't
qualify as queens.
I hate to say this, but we still have a
long way to go.
her works Serowe: Village Of The
Rainwind and Collector of Treasure s .
I'm very fond of Samuel Delaney, the
Black science fiction writer, and
Octavia Butler, another Black science
fiction writer. I dream of Toni
Morrison and I like Gloria Naylor a
lot. They are superior writers. There
are a lot of African writers that I like:
Ferdinand Oyono, who wrote The Old
Man and the Medal; Yambo Ouloguen,
who wrote Bound To Violence;
Mariama Ba, who was a very fine writ
er. I also enjoy Simone Schwarz-Bart,
a Caribbean writer who wrote The
Bridge Of Beyond.
SV: What's in your future?
SB: Graduate school for African
Literature and Languages and finishing
my manuscript, American Mongrel.
Then I'll look for a publisher.
Terri Jewell is a poet and freelance
writer who lives in Irving, Michigan.
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February 15,1990 • Southern Voice /13