The Waiter, My Food, and His Fingernails

One of the joys of travel is treating yourself to nice restaurants in pretty locations—places that offer lovely views, a variety of non-greasy options and excellent service. Southern California’s coastal enclaves have no shortage of such options. After spending last week surrounded by San Gabriel mountains but mired in ugly deep-fryer eateries, I was ready to round out the final leg of my trip at the coast and with a serious hotel and dining upgrade. I had only nineteen hours to redeem before my flight, so I chose wisely, or so I thought.

Having checked into my glamorous hotel on this sunny and promising day, I was ready to match the new vibe with a classy outdoor meal; the world of squawking drive-through windows was officially behind me. It was time to try some foodie fare while soaking in the fashionable, coastal warmth of a restaurant patio. MR.GREEN Manicure Sets... Check Amazon for Pricing.

My first waiter was an older Mexican man, attentive but making no fawning attempts to impress. He took my order and delivered a Coke without fanfare; so far, things were moving smoothly. Only a few ladies doing lunch sat nearby, so I was able to idle peacefully in the glow of a patio heater while I waited for my meal to arrive. I was famished, too; after my long drive out to the coast, it was now well past the lunch hour. My food would surely receive a hero’s welcome.

As it turns out, bewilderment awaited me. The waiter who who arrived next was a bit of a puzzle; I had no idea what sort of human was bearing my long-awaited plates. The outfit led me down one path, but the face another. Stretch jeans plastered a womanly backside, but the skin-tight shirt told otherwise. Next came the face—square but softly plump, and with a touch of five-o’clock shadow. The hair was noncommittal—longish for a man, and shorter for a woman. The voice warbled to a higher pitch but rose from manlier chords.

Etekcity Smart Scale f... Check Amazon for Pricing. This was confusing enough, but what came next took the cake and eliminated any appetite for that as well. As the would-be lady (I wagered) lowered my dishes to the table, I spied a long, painted fingernail disappearing into a corner recess of my roasted potatoes. Gripping the next bowl, his fingernail hid behind some Brussels sprouts, my perennial favorite dish. For any waiter of any gender, this stomach-churning move is offensive, but the bewildering visual disunions brought extra alarms. I had no idea whom or what I would be addressing, or perhaps even triggering; a few more quick calculations sent me into silent resignation.

I brokered an uneasy peace with the tainted plates. The invasive grip limited me to only half of the rosemary-encrusted potatoes and two-thirds of my Brussels sprouts. I placed the molested portions of each dish at the one o’clock position, thus marking a danger zone, which I patrolled to ensure no sketchy border pieces rolled into my fork’s path.

The Southern California lunch wrapped up with nary a word from me; all was not lost that day, or so it seemed. His fingernails were still free to roam, and I learned to appreciate the drive-through—but it took a glimmer off the Golden State for me.

This originally appeared on Restoring Truth.