Don’t F*cking Call Me Big Guy

October 14, 2018October 14, 2018

Read Time:3 Minute, 41 Second

A few weeks ago I stopped for lunch at my favorite Asian fusion restaurant. I didn’t recognize the pimply-faced young man, Tim, who scurried over to my table, but given the restaurant’s proximity to a large university, I expect he was a student, working to help pay his tuition and living expenses.

Within a few moments after sitting down, Tim asked: “Hi young man, what would you like to drink?” Now, I’m not a young man, far from it, and would never want to be a young man again, unless I could take my stored knowledge in the time machine with me. My first reaction to his greeting was one of irritation, and I quietly asked Tim not to call me that, by saying “I’m not a young man.”

Instead of taking the hint from my dark scowl, he responded: “Young at heart is what you are.” Now, this pissed me off, even more, prompting me to tell him I wasn’t young at heart and didn’t want to be. At this, he appeared surprised and walked away to collect my drink, which was water, something that seemed to irritate him as he tried to convince me a cocktail of some sort was in order at 11:45 in the morning on a Sunday.

When he returned, a big smile crossing his thin face, he asked if I was ready to order, and I was. As a starter, I ordered the White miso soup with spinach, tofu, and wakame seaweed. For my entree, I asked for the Chicken Nabe, which is Asian vegetables and chicken in a hot and spicy broth with thick and juicy udon noodles. He was furiously scribbling down what I was telling him, looking confused for a moment, before asking me if I wanted a spoon for my soup. I was nonplussed at this, but smiled nonetheless, and told him I did, as it was soup, after all.

He returned shortly with my water and my soup, along with a set of chopsticks, nicely wrapped in an Asian band with birds and bamboo embossed on it. Setting them down, he turned to walk away, saying: “Enjoy big guy.” Big guy? What in the barking fuck? Although becoming more irritated by the minute I resisted the urge to pour the steaming hot soup over his head, and simply asked him what I should do with soup and chopsticks.

I asked this with a tight smile, fighting back my inner demons, all urging me to perform various unnatural acts on young Tim. The latter, who looked about 12 years old, with a shining forehead and a nervous tic which consisted of wrinkling his nose every few seconds, seemed puzzled until I pointed out that it might be difficult to eat soup with chopsticks. At that, his eyes widened as he appeared to comprehend the illogic of this. He returned a few minutes later with a fork, putting it down and saying: “Here you go, big guy.”

At some point in everyone’s day, there comes the stark realization that perhaps staying in bed might have been a better option. I stared directly at Tim and told him I needed a fucking spoon. His eyes widened, as the proverbial light bulb flickered on for a brief moment in his foggy brain, and he finally brought me a spoon, once again stating: “Here you go, big guy.”

The balance of lunch was uneventful, beyond Tim rushing over to my table every few minutes asking: “Everything OK big guy?” As I readied my American Express I pondered the tip. Should I, or shouldn’t I? Was the service provided by young Tim worth it? Should I overlook the chopsticks instead of the spoon and leave him a healthy 20%? Finally, I relented, having softened my heart with the realization that in today’s world politeness and etiquette have gone the way of honesty in politics.

I prepared to leave, having signed the cheque, along with a 20% tip. The anxious Tim thanked me in a rush, with yet another “big guy” prompting me to say, by way of saying goodbye: “Don’t fucking call me ‘big guy.’ It’s sir Tim. Sir.” He looked like he had just seen a dinosaur, his eyes wide, brow knitted in a puzzled expression when it occurred to me that perhaps he had, in fact, just seen a dinosaur. Perhaps he had.