Waiting for a miracle

India is not known as a land of great customer care, but is home to the world’s best restaurant service. I haven’t dined in restaurants around the world, so I’m not even remotely qualified to make that statement, but I just did, and you just paid attention to it – such is the power of the written word.

Most of us in India take the near-perfect service at an Ullas, a Shanti Sagar, a Sukh Sagar, or even a Hotel Ramesh, for granted. But once you’re exposed to service in other lands, you’ll realise how brilliant these guys are.

You walk straight in and head for the nearest empty table. If there isn’t one empty, you simply slide in at somebody else’s table. The instant your bum touches the seat, the waiter comes across with the menu and a glass of water.

If you’re a regular at the restaurant, he might give you the faintest smile, or even a hello. But in every other way it’s a no-nonsense transaction, he comes over, you tell him what you want, he goes away. Perfect.

If you don’t feel like reading the menu and want to order quickly, you can ask the waiter what there is. You’ll need a good ear for this though, because he’ll rattle off the dishes at about 6,000 words per minute.

"Let me show you to your table”
In the developed nation I recently spent time in, the procedure goes a little differently. You have to stand by the door of the restaurant and be stared at by all the patrons while you wait to be noticed by the staff. Eventually somebody sees you and comes over – not looking too happy about it. You have to go through a “Hey, how are you guys doing today?” and then wait to be seated.

When you are shown to your table, you have to say hi all over again to the waiter, or, as is often the case, the waitress.

Through the evening the waitress acts as if she is doing you a HUGE favour by waiting on you. You feel uncomfortable and on edge – you’re almost scared to ask her for things. She comes across with the menus and asks if you’d like anything to drink. You say the following (tell me which bit of it is confusing to you): “Water with no ice please.”

“Water with no ice sure. Will that be all? Okay, I’ll just get you your water with no ice and then you can decide on the main course okay?”

Yes miss.

Five minutes later, she’ll come back with a clinking glass – full of water, and full of ice.

“Err… excuse me…” Hey, I’m scared of these ladies okay? “Errr… excuse me? I’d asked for no ice.”

“Oh yes, I’m sorry. Here let me get that for you.”

What? Now you’re doing me a favour by correcting an order you got wrong in the first place?

He never gets it wrong
Back to the vegetarian restaurant in India. You can have a group of 20 and the waiter won’t bat an eyelid. The ordering can go on for 10 minutes, but the waiter won’t write anything down. In fact, he’ll look as if he isn’t even listening. You know how it is in a group – you order, somebody change his mind, you change the order, somebody hears something that sounds nicer, she changes her mind, you change the order, somebody adds something to the order, somebody cancels something… it’s just one big mess.

What won’t change, however, is the waiter’s expression. A newcomer might lean over and say, “The snotty little git is going to forget everything we say right? He’s going to get everything into an almighty blundery muddle isn’t he? He’s going to bring us wrong things, forget to bring us things and it’s just going to get pissing off isn’t it?”

Nope.

He won’t forget.

He won’t get it wrong.

There are times you’ll think he’s got it wrong, but he’ll remind you that you changed your mind at the last minute. How can I say this more convincingly? HE WON’T GET IT WRONG. EVER.

Apart from that, you know the best part? Unlike the waitress across the world, he doesn’t have a running commentary.

“Here’s your food, I’m just going to make a little place for it now. There, this is your fish. Enjoy your meal!”

And, ten minutes later, the instant you put a large forkful of something into your mouth, she’ll come over and ask, “How is everything over here?”

So you have to mumble and nod your head because you’ve just stuffed your ugly little face, and she gives you a Look and vanishes. About 15 minutes later, just as you take your last giant mouthful, she’s back.

“I hope everything’s going okay. Are you enjoying the food?”

Again you go, “Mmmmmble mmmm bbble gmmm.” And she gives you another Look and vanishes.

And once you’re done: “If you guys are done, I’m just going to clear those plates for ya.”

For me? I’m paying good money and taxes for this meal and I’m expected to tip you 15 per cent. You’re doing this for you lady, not for me. It’s your JOB, so just shut up and do it.

“Okay, now that’s done, have you thought about what you’d like for dessert?”

No, so could you shut up and bring me the dessert menu please? Thanks.

Instant satisfaction
Back in Shanti Sagar or was it Sukh Sagar – I can never tell them apart – you don’t have to look around for the waiter. You look up and he’ll catch your eye – even if he’s carrying 41 paper masala dosas to table three while writing bills for tables five, six and eight. He’ll catch your eye and nod. As soon as he starts to come over (which is quite quickly because he isn’t busy telling each table how to do his job), you just have to point at a plate or bowl and hold up a finger. He’ll nod again and head for the kitchen, knowing exactly what you need.

And if you’ve pointed at your chutney bowl (he knows, at 40 feet, which bowl is which – even if you’ve moved them around and not spilled down the sides), he’ll bring you two bowls of chutney and one of sambhar, just in case.

And if you ever have to send something back (which you never will) he’ll just bring you another – no glaring, no scratching his head, no muttering to his colleagues.

And you know what? He’s not highly paid either. So don’t use that as an excuse.

PS: If you’re from a developed nation a lot like the one described, DO NOT order coffee at one of these restaurants. You’ll be struck by the horrible realisation that all this time S*******s has been serving you brown ditchwater; and charging four bucks for it.

Heyyyy, howya doin'?

When I first visited America, I thought, “Oh that’s so nice! The people here are so friendly – they keep saying hi to each other!”

After two weeks of that, I’d cross the street to avoid saying hi. I’d pretend to get an SMS just before I passed somebody. And I’d take three flights of stairs rather than get into that torture chamber – the lift. Sorry, the elevator.

“Hey, howya doing?”

“All well thanks.” Now shut up. I don’t know you, you don’t me, just shut up.

“The weather’s been great hasn’t it?”

Oh frigging fuckwort. “Yeah fantastic.” Come on bastard lift door, close and get on with it.

“I’ve been out all day walking – it’s wonderful.”

Two more floors. “Oh yeah? Sounds great.”

“Oh yes. There are some great walking routes over by the lake.”

Any into the damn lake? “I should go there sometime.”

“Oh you should!”

“Oh thank the lord, it’s my floor. “Okay, see you then.”

“Have a nice night!”

Yeah, and up yours too.

Awww. You might think. Awwwww. Such a nice man. How can you think so rudely of him? See, the thing is, it doesn’t take long to see through all this friendliness. The lady at the supermarket checkout counter? So friendly, so hearty. “Heyyyy. Howyadoing? Everything goin’ okay? Great day today!”

And then, the instant you show some kind of need – for example if you’re not sure how to work the discount card swipe machine, or you stumble over which one’s a dime and which one’s a quarter – WHABABP!!! The friendly door SLAMS shut. Her face goes all hard. She acts as if you’ve just asked her for a huge favour – like, “I don’t have money for a taxi – can I borrow your car?” And then it’s all you can do to rush through the unpleasantness and get the hell out of there.

How does it slam shut?

WHABABP!!!

I knew you’d like that one.

Anyway, the point is, after I returned I LOVED the fact that I could get into a lift and nobody would even smile. I wanted to EMBRACE the rude watchman at my office who wouldn’t say good morning even if you lit a Lakshmi bomb under his bum.

I wanted to KISS the… okay… I wasn’t that happy. But I was happy.

Bumwashing

Bumwashing is the single biggest proof that modern India has descended from a great and ancient civilisation. Toilet paper is one of the most barbaric things I can think of. Do your duty and then wipe it off? Not much of an advance from squatting in the woods and scraping yourself with leaves is it?

Say “skid marks” to an Indian and the only thing he or she will think of is hard braking. I’m not saying all of you TP types have skid marks, but you should know that the non-road skid mark concept is unknown in India. We have squeaky clean bums and can sweat without concern in our bright, white VIP underthings.

Dirty hands you might say? Well, when you’ve rubbed your finger on your own bum, you tend to make bloody well sure that you wash your hands properly. With toilet paper, there’s the danger of getting lazy. There’s the danger of saying, “Hey, I was careful today – I didn’t make direct contact – I folded over to the perfect thickness each time. May be I won’t wash.”

THAT’S DISGUSTING!!

Do you know that bathrooms in India today have little water hoses on the wall beside the toilet? They’re fantastic. And in summer the water is lovely and warm; you could spend the whole day washing.

Trust me, if one of your tasks in hell is to spend a month in somebody’s butt crack, you’d do well to choose a Bloody Indian.