Hipsters, Hold the Service, Please
The thing I love about being in a committed relationship is gossiping with my girlfriend about other couples. Of course, I did this when I was single, too. But talking shit about #CoupleGoals with other single guys was like punching air. Now, it’s like I’m in the ring, actually landing blows to the head. Which makes it all the more satisfying.
Kaitlyn and I dine out on a couple tiff for weeks. And it doesn’t have to be anything big. It rarely is.
“Did you see the way she looked at him when he subbed his salad for fries?”
“She probably killed him when they got home.”
“Should we call the police and report a dead body at their address?”
“Nah, let’s start a podcast called Eat Your Vegetables, or Die and see how it unfolds.”
There’s never a shortage. Until lately. I’ve noticed we run out of material somewhere between the last bite and the check being presented. This never used to happen.
I refuse to believe we’re getting duller as a couple. Thus, I point my frustration toward the popularization of Hipster Service.
Which is an oxymoron. If Hipster Service is indeed because of Hipsters, how can it be everywhere?
And yet, here we are. Constantly waiting on the bill as I scribble down notes about waiting on the bill.
“Hipster Service is slow,” I wrote in my diary last week. Then, “x2” next to it the next day. I tallied it four more times within two weeks.
I am aware that most of my audience might classify as Hipsters. I am aware that this point of view may be offensive to them. But the great thing about offending Hipsters is that none actually admit to being Hipsters. Thus, the backlash will be no stronger than the smoke coming from their vape pens.
I am also aware that I myself might be a Hipster. Though, I grew up in a place where the only form of “hip” was the kind getting replaced. So at the most, I’m a Ster. And no one’s complaining about slow stervice.
My opinion might be different if I had to wash dishes to keep me afloat while I continue to not work on my novel. And I can’t imagine dropping off a second round of LITs to women who are too busy taking selfies to thank me. Nor do I even want to imagine the more common group of men who think they own me because they’re going to tip 25%.
Some diners deserve Hipster Service.
Kaitlyn and I do not. We are superb diner-outers. We are respectful but don’t pull the whole “use the server’s name to prove we’re respectful” schtick. We come prepared and have a general sense of what we might order. And we’ll never order a drink with more than three ingredients or adjust a menu item in more than one way.
We simply ask that you know the response to, “I’ll just have whatever lager’s on tap.” And that you check in with us at least twice in the time it takes to come up with an entire true crime podcast script.
We recently ate at a fancy restaurant for Kaitlyn’s birthday. The kind that doesn’t have a menu. They email you before you show up to discuss likes and dislikes, food allergies, and such. The general manager seemed almost offended when I emailed back, “No preferences here! We’ll eat anything you bring us.”
When we arrived, there was a birthday card waiting for Kaitlyn. I’m not sure we went five minutes during the 3-hour meal without a somm or server checking on us. At one point, I accidentally farted, and the host ran over with Tom Ford fragrance, spritzed the area, and said, “Good one, Mr. Fuller.”
I don’t need that every night. Or really ever again. But I draw the line at running out of ways to make fun of other couples before the check comes.
Is that too much to ask?