What I’m For…
Regarding Savage’s call for pro-transgression Slog posts, here’s mine.
Recently I was enjoying a beer and slice at one of my favorite local pizzerias Piecora’s when I realized I was in the hands of my new favorite waiter.
Cut from the same cloth of Cafe Septieme’s great, long-lost Stephanie, my Piecora’s waiter was another one of wonderful food-service workers who seemingly couldn’t care less if you lived or died—no niceties, no smiles, no chit-chat, just prompt, rigorously accomplished service.
This bad-ass vibe is amplified by my Piecora’s dream-waiter’s appearance. With his biker’s gut, overgrown goatee, and long, scraggly ponytail, he looks like he regularly eats babies—which only makes his brusque-but-careful service more impressive.
Props to nicety-flouting food workers who get the motherfucking job done.
However, this post shouldn’t be taken as a slam against retail or service workers who aren’t mute and hostile. Case in point: The quietly delightful Far West cabbie who drove me to work today and who—at my urging—chatted me up about the amazing Bhangra-flavored hiphop he was playing. (By Surinder Shinda, if you’re curious…)