A visit to a restaurant is an event for me. I save myself from over indulgence throughout the day in order to savour the dishes that I might order at the restaurant. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. From pub grub to michelen star, I want to eat my meal all to myself.
As I sit in the sunshine waiting for a menu at a modest pizza place with a couple of friends, the dreaded question was said by one of them…
“Shall we get a family size pizza to share?”
Dude. Do you even know me?! I thought. Are you my friend?
Those who know me would know that I can eat a family sized pizza to myself. And no fish toppings or pineapple, no half and half or thick crust. I want a sloppy Bolognese with lots of cheese and a side order of fries and I don’t want to share it. Do you want a straw my friend? You can slurp on my coke while you’re at it!
I might be in the minority here. It seems increasingly popular to share food at a restaurant. And if I were to try to add fairness to the debate, I could say that my friends were paying equally. It’s not like they were stealing what is mine. It’s just that I want my own and I will pay for my own. I’m happy for the waiter to be frustratingly hovering over our table at the end of a meal while we try to work out who ordered the extra dough balls.
But splitting the bill down the middle is never fair. I pay for my third but I’m still left hungry. Throughout the whole meal I am trying to nibble on my slice of pizza so that I don’t race off and eat what is meant for somebody else. The problem is they’re so bloody slow! I’m Hank Marvin guys! I’m not interested in your visit to Porto. Keep up and eat your fucking bit of the pizza!
But they don’t. By the end I look at the table and all that remains is one slice of pizza and a few fries. They’re not mine. It belongs to Porto guy but does he actually want it? He’s been talking about the architecture of some library for the past fifteen minutes and his slice remains untouched. Untouched by humans anyway, but the flies have had a good investigation of it and the ants crawling up the table leg seem interested.
When is it acceptable to ask if he wants it? Will I have to pay extra if I just slide in there and eat it? Would they even notice? Maybe they haven’t been counting their slices. I wouldn’t want to have to pay extra or be called out for eating more than anyone else. But there’s no way that slice of pizza is being taken away by the waiter. Even the five skinny fries have given up on being eaten by him. They look cold and hard. But if I could dip them into a bit of mayo I could spruce them up again. Fluff them up to their former, delicious glory. I’d save them.
You see, ordering my own food allows me to eat what I like. There are no social rules. I order it, it arrives, I eat it and I pay for it. No awkwardness. It makes me happier. My wife has figured out eventually that, on takeaway nights, I order three chapatis for my curry. Not three chapatis with a bite taken out, not two and a half. Three whole chapatis. This ensures that I can be generous with the chapati dipping of my curry. And any chapati that is left over can ‘mop’ the sides of the dish to avoid wastage. And if I run out of chapati then I can wipe my chips through the sauce to do the same job. Yes, chips. My chips. Not once have I asked my wife for a spoonful of her basmati rice and I never will.
However, some good news on the restaurant visit! The slice of pizza was eventually offered to me and our other friend. I held out my hand towards the slice to invite our friend to have it. He thought about it for a split second and then said no. Result! I’m not sure what reaction I would have given if the greedy bastard had reached over for it.
We all sat back in our chairs patting our full bellies. And then, as the waiter took our plates and asked if we wanted dessert, my friend stated, “I’m really full but I’d be happy to share one.”
Never Give Up PT 