The Customer is Always Wrong

The Customer is Always Wrong
By: Missy D.

Despite being a five star restaurant when I arrived at the famous French restaurant Le Meilleur Cuisinier, there was not a customer in sight. I pondered if they were closed, so I cautiously opened the gold handled double doors as I entered the restaurant.

“Hello?” I whispered through the doorway. I walked inside, carefully closing the door behind me. The interior was gorgeous. In the lobby there was a solid gold fountain with sparkling water streaming through the top.

I walked around to the other side of the fountain and I saw a single podium between two large tapestries. The tapestries were embroidered with bloodied animals. It was certainly unique.

Then suddenly a waiter appeared out of the shadow of one of the tapestries. He was like a dwarf in height, but with the face of a man. Stunted growth I presumed, though it didn’t matter to me. He was wearing a fine Gucci tuxedo, and a pair of jet-black pumps. His eyes were decorated with a dark violet liner, and below his nose was a long black moustache, though it was seemingly crooked. Upon closer inspection I also noticed his hair was not entirely on his head but rather sitting on top, and then I realized he was wearing a toupee.

“Welcome, welcome, mademoizelle!” he spoke with a deep pseudo-French accent. “Welcome to ze’ finest  reztaurant in France, Le Meilleur Cuizinier. I will be your waiter tonight, and you may call me Monzieur Nain. Pleaze follow me know, az I ezcort you to your zeat.”

He was interesting to be sure, but I followed. As a food critic it has been my job to review only the finest restaurants in France, though in my travels I had yet to ever be truly impressed. I had been to every claim to fame restaurant such as the degouant, le brut, and le mechant, but they had failed to deliver anything that that would make my taste buds sing. They were nothing more than paltry tourist attractions.

The waiter pointed to a table, and so I sat.

“No, no, no!” he cried. “You are doing it all wrong!”

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“Get up, get up! You ruined the moment, let’s try zis again!” he shouted. So I got up.

“Now,” he said “When you zit, you must zit zlowly. You must place your handz on your lap, and you must zit straight up. When you scooch your chair in you do so without zound, and without moving your handz. After you have pulled up, you must place your handz on the table, but not your elbows. Then you must zit, and wait. No zounds, and no complaints!”

I was going to respond, but for fear he would lecture me, I just followed his instructions and sat down. I slowly moved the chair forward, while sitting up straight, and then sat, quietly. The waiter sized me up, before deciding that he was pleased, and then began to retreat into the kitchen.

“Umm...” I interrupted. “Don’t I get to order a drink?”

“AUGH!” he screamed. “You ruined the moment! Get up, get up. Go back to the entrance and lets try zis again!”

“Was he serious? Well, whatever” I thought. So I got up from my seat, and pushed the chair back with a loud screech.

“AUGH!” said the waiter. “What is your problem?!” I shrugged my shoulders, and hurriedly made my way toward the door. I left the establishment and entered again. Then again the waiter appeared from behind the shadow of the tapestries.

“Welcome, welcome, mademoizelle!” he spoke with a deep pseudo-French accent. “Welcome to ze’ finest  reztaurant in France, Le Meilleur Cuizinier. I will be your waiter tonight, and you may call me Monzieur Nain. Pleaze follow me know, az I ezcort you to your zeat.”

I followed him without speaking, walking quickly but not too fast. Now he had pointed to a booth.

“This isn’t where I was sitting before...” I muttered, but then quickly put my hands over my mouth.

“AUGH!” screamed the waiter. So I was forced to leave, and then reenter. Then we went through the motions with the tapestry, the introduction, and then the seat. This time I followed, and sat, and said not a word. The waiter sized me up, before deciding that he was pleased, and then retreated into the kitchen. I was so nervous I could barely breath. What if I was breathing wrong, what if I was breathing too fast? What if I was breathing through my nose too much, what if I was breathing too slow?

I ignored Le Meilleur Cuisinier for the longest time. Though as a critic, I was always open to new experiences and so I openly shared my e-mail and phone for those who wished to send in suggestions. Mostly what I got were requests from owners to write reviews about their restaurant, and occasionally I was even offered a bribe to say something nice. Those who believed I would surrender my morals for a few extra dollars had all mysteriously gone out of business within the month.

I waited for a good five minutes before the waiter emerged from the kitchen holding a silver platter. On the platter was a tall wine glass filled with a dark purple liquid. He came over to me and carefully placed it onto the table. He motioned for me to take a sip.
So I carefully grasped the glass between my fingers, and took a sip. It was the most exquisite wine I had ever sampled, each drop was like liquid euphoria. I was so enticed by the flavor I accidentally started to slurp. The waiter’s eyes turned stoic as he snatched the glass from my hand in mid sip.

“You Mademoizelle, are a monzter,” he said softly. Then he put the glass on the platter and retreated to the kitchen. I sat for another five minutes, until he came out again. This time he only brought a glass of water with ice. His eyes were bulging, and his face was a scowl, as if my accidental folly had deeply scarred him for life. I avoided eye contact, and said nothing as he set the glass on the table in front of me. Then he retreated to the kitchen, without saying a word.

I watched the glass with a passion. The humidity caused the outer surface to swell up with condensation. Little water droplets began to form, and combine to make bigger water droplets. All of a sudden the drops of water were so large they began to race down the side of the glass toward the table. So I quickly grabbed the cup and picked it up before it created puddle of liquid mess. I hurriedly placed my napkin underneath where the glass was, and then set the glass down onto the napkin. The dampened napkin began to darken as the water coursed through the individual fibers soaking it to its core.

Then at once I remembered the napkin should not be on the table, but on my lap. Beads of sweat began to form on my brow as I thought of what would happen if the waiter returned. So I quickly went to pick up the glass to retrieve the napkin, but it was too late. The waiter, again, emerged from the kitchen holding the silver platter, but now with what looked to be roast beef and potatoes. He had only taken one step before noticing my mistake.

He began to breathe heavily through his nose, and his eyeballs stuck out so far I was expecting them to just pop out of his face. His toupee was crooked, revealing the hint of a bald spot, and his moustache was frayed. In only a moment the heavenly scent of beef and gravy had reached my vicinity, and I breathed in every bite through my nostrils. The waiter did not come toward me. He simply turned around, and reentered the kitchen. My stomach growled. I was offered a slice of heaven, and I ruined it. I mentally scolded myself, I hated myself, and I wanted to die.

With every restaurant I had been too lately, the food was bland and hardly worthy of praise. It was not that the places that I was going to were bad; in fact many were five star restaurants that were highly praised for their inventive flavors and ingenuity. It was just that they were missing that certain something, that which separated king from servant, or animal from man.

If I could truly describe what I am meaning to say, then it would become material, and dissolved of its eminence. I was not after the common fare; I wanted that which only the most devoted could obtain. I wanted perfection, paradise.

The waiter did not return. Exactly five minutes had passed, and then a very plump man emerged from the kitchen dressed all in white and wearing a toque. He slowly walked toward me with clumsy feet. Despite his hefty stature, his legs were quite small. He had a large curled moustache, which had been shaped with hair gel, and he flaunted it by shifting his upper lip back and forth.

“Are you the one?” he said to me gingerly. His face was also in an exaggerated scowl. I couldn’t tell who was more upset, he or the waiter.

“Yes?...” I hesitantly responded.

“You, madam, are a disgrace to the critic community! You know nothing of fine dining or refinement, and frankly I am insulted you dare even show your face in my exquisite establishment! I want you OUT, OUT!”

I had been patient all night, but in that moment I had, had it. I stood up, purposefully knocked over a neighboring chair, and then stared at the chef straight in the eyes.
“No, no! You listen here! I came here for a five star meal and I have been given nothing but disrespect! I am the customer, how DARE you tell me how I should act. As a restaurant owner you should know, the customer is always right!”

The chef smiled, and laughed with a repugnant chuckle.

“Le Meilleur Cuisinier is the finest restaurant in France! In fact the food is so exquisite, we only serve to the finest patrons in France, and frankly madam you are not one of them! Now again, get OUT!” My cheeks flared with a brilliant red, but then like a passing reminder the heavenly scent of roast beef and potatoes filled my nostrils to the brim. Then I noticed, just barely, sticking out from the kitchen entrance was a single tiny hand holding a large silver platter.

My lip started to quiver, and my whole body started to tremble. I got down on my knees, and began to cry.

“P-Please forgive my disruption m-monsieur. I d-didn’t mean anything by it.” I stammered. “All I w-wanted was to indulge in the rapturous pleasure of your c-culinary delight, p-please forgive me.” I groveled profusely to appease my culinary master.
“Hmm...” he replied, “but what is this? By this point most customers have already left out the door, but here you stay.” The chef gave a half-smile. “Very well Madam, I shall give you one more chance, but this time it must be perfect. One mistake, and I shall never serve you again.”

Now I looked up crying tears of joy. “Oh thank you monsieur, thank you. I will do everything exactly as you have said.” I stood up, bowed, and walked out the door. When I returned I was treated to what was truly the finest cuisine in France.

When I had finished eating the waiter returned for my dishes. His moustache had been straightened, and his toupee fixed. First he bowed to me as if I had just completed some sacred ceremony, and then from a pocket in his apron he withdrew a receipt.

“Your check madam...” said the waiter, then after grabbing my dishes, he retreated hastily to the kitchen. I turned over the receipt to look at the bill, and then my eyes almost popped out of my head.

“THIS DINNER COSTS HOW MUCH?!” I screamed. The waiter peeked his head from out of the kitchen.

“No one said paradise was cheap!”