When Your Waiter Turns Out to Be a Squatter
Squatting is functional; you squat to pick something up, you squat when you need to tie your shoelace. But a squatting waiter in a restaurant—that’s a really strange phenomenon if you ask me.
The man thought it was lovely that we had come out for a bite to eat. Personally, I think that’s a dangerous opening statement for a waiter, both the “bite” and the “lovely” part. Women can be surprisingly big eaters, so he can leave that “little” out. And “lovely” is dangerous, because if you’ve ever worked in hospitality, you know that a table that looks lovely at first glance can quickly turn into guests from hell. But soit, I appreciated his enthusiasm.
Only, he did something I hoped was simply an accident, a one-off, a little mistake, that sort of thing—but nothing could have been further from the truth. Our waiter turned out to be a squatter.
Before you start having all kinds of filthy thoughts, I mean a squatter who comes walking over with a stack of menus, some bread and the wine list. You’re already sort of ready to grab him from the right over your shoulder, and suddenly the good man smoothly lowers himself onto his haunches (I’ve been looking for my haunches my entire life, by the way—can anyone tell me roughly where they are?) beside the table, leaving only his head visible. And that feels strange on every level.
On your angry little head
First of all, I simply don’t think it’s a good look, having a squatter beside your table. It looks a bit as though the person in question is four years old and popping up above the edge for the first time, or as if he’s been hiding under the table all this time (with who knows what kind of business going on). Secondly, the relationship between guest and waiter is thrown completely off, because you immediately end up in a twisted, awkward relationship, even though you’re seeing each other for the first time. But the third one is genuinely life-threatening. I got an almost irresistible urge to pat the boy (because he changed from a man into a boy the moment his little head poked just above the table) on the head. In a “there, there, good boy” kind of way—and he was well past that age. Or rather, I still thought that was the most dangerous part of the meal.
At every ordering moment, the waiter neatly sank back into position. He told us the red gurnard was the fish of the day, accompanied by some grilled vegetables, while I kept wondering whether his feet were going numb and tingling, or whether his calves were becoming extremely well-developed from all that squatting. When he hauled himself upright again by pushing his hands against his thighs, I had to get it off my chest. I shared my feelings about the squatter with my table companions. My most important lesson about the squatter: Don’t. Ever. Do. This.
With every little squat
By naming the squatter, table companion 1 started snorting every time he squatted. Table companion 2 stared intently at my eyebrow with every little squat, which made table companion 3 crack up and hide her face in a napkin. I couldn’t handle all those emotions, so, whinnying, I ordered a glass of chardonnay from the squatter. He probably knew I was on the verge of getting the giggles, but the poor thing (thankfully) had no idea he was the cause.
Squatting is functional; you squat to pick something up, you squat when you want to coochie-coo at a small child, you squat when you need to tie your shoelace. But above all, don’t squat beside a table with four women while asking whether they know what red gurnard is and having to write down that they want two chardonnays, sparkling water and a non-alcoholic beer. Because there’s a real chance one of them might start stroking you on the head—and that could very well be me.
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