Ordering bacon is always a roll of the dice with not particularly good odds, but I thought I'd give it a shot tonight.
"I'd like the Chubby Checker," I said, locking my eyes with his and then enunciating very clearly, "with the bacon burnt."
He finished writing on his pad and said, "Got it."
When my grilled sandwich--turkey, cheese, barbecue sauce, tomato, and bacon on wheat--arrived, the bacon looked perfect: a dark, crispy brown. My pickle spear was crunchy and my fries were super hot for an additional bonus.
For all the floppy bacon I've been served over the years, maybe eye contact was the final missing step.
When I was little, I was shy and hated ordering; whenever possible, I didn't speak for myself. Now it irritates me when someone tries to order for me. This only comes up with my parents on occasion, the very people who were kind enough to indulge me a fair amount of the time as a kid.
The problem is more the manner in which they'll order for me: "Claire would like the..." or "Claire will have the..." They use my name, and it grates as though they are giving out my mystical essence to strangers, allowing them to have power over me. (I never said my frustration was rational.)
In any case, a vestige from my early non-ordering days is that I focus on my menu when speaking more than the server, rarely--if ever--holding eye contact with him or her. For me, this is a strange restaurant-specific aberration.
Time to change that, I think, at least when ordering bacon.
A year ago on TTaT: Cruise Night, round 1; Contraception is NOT abortion