Just Write It Down ~ #JWITFD…

Ever gone to a restaurant where a waiter/waitress comes to your table to take your order — and you’re ready and maybe very hungry or perhaps just ready for a relaxing meal with your family or friends or just by yourself — and you’ve studied the menu and found something that sounds perfectly wonderfully delicious with only a little tweak or two to make that something really, really something and transform you into the happiest diner on earth?

I’m not talking picky.

I’m talking precise.

Specific.

Something you’d do at home while preparing your own meal.

So, you’re ready to order. The entire table of people is ready to order.

The server is friendly. Very personable, in fact. Answers questions about menu items. Converses. Smiles.

You’re all ready to do this thing.

OK.

THEN. T-H-E-N.

—————————  the server isn’t writing your orders, this stuff down ———————-

I’ll give you a very quick, simple, personal tweak-ish example of precise and specific of me ordering a cheeseburger at a very fun pub last night…

Yes, could I please have the Avacado Cheeseburger, very well done as in the chef can split it open if he wants to make sure, with the specified Monterey Jack Cheese, but no onions, lettuce or tomatoes. Thank you.

I didn’t go into my burger quirks with our waitress. And maybe you’d think me picky, but I have an aversion to meat touching veggies on a burger, particularly lettuce and tomatoes. I don’t eat onions. And pink meat makes my skin crawl. AND THE SERVER IS NOT WRITING THE ORDER.

And there are 5 more people in my party waiting to order.

I experienced a mild panic; well, manic panic.

But, hey.

Maybe all will be well.

Way Down In Food Hell where nobody writes this shit down…

I began to sweat.

Someday, I’m just gonna say it…

I’m curious as to why you don’t write the orders. I mean, I don’t expect you to memorize all of these orders. I don’t even want you to. I’m not impressed. I’m nervous, actually. Fearful and ready to release every OCD trigger I have. I want to cry. I’m crying inside right now. I’d rather the chef see precise and specific orders that make his/her job and life easier, and therefore yours, as well. And I have an aversion to meat touching my veggies and I’m gonna puke if my meat is pink. Blame my mother…

#JWITFD.

OK?

Oh, I don’t know about you. Maybe it’s just me. Am I the sole one sobbing under the table in fear and OCD of servers without notepads or order receipts and veggies bumping into pink meat?

Now there is nothing to do but wait. And drink beer.

Ah, here she comes. Personable. Smiling. Plates skillfully carried. Happy to have obliged…

… my very well done burger (thank you very much!) — sitting on lettuce & tomatoes and topped with onions…

I spring into action like a food ninja, removing the lettuce, tomatoes, onions with the skill of a diner who’s been here, done this.

But why?

Isn’t it just easier for everyone to #JustWriteItTheFreakDown?

Or am I the only diner with this #JWITFD disorder?