Desicatessen
I’m working at a deli/diner where you can see the kitchen from the seats. We have a new chef in the kitchen. An older regular comes in.
Regular: “Oh… you got one of them… uh… foreigners up in the kitchen?”
Me: “That’s Vasu, and he’s a d*** good cook.”
Regular: “Yeah, but I want some good ol’ American food. I don’t want none of that Indian stuff.”
Me: “[Regular], how long have you been coming here?”
Regular: “Longer than you’ve been alive!”
Me: “And has the menu changed once in all that time?”
Regular: “Uh… not really.”
Me: “Exactly. So, you want your bacon, ham, and eggs?”
Regular: “…yeah. Tell him not to mess it up.”
Our new chef prepares the food and brings it out to our regular.
Chef: “Non-foreign bacon, ham, and eggs for the gentleman, not too messed up.”
Regular: “Now come on, there’s no need to be unprofessional.”
Chef: “And there’s no need to assume I can’t cook your food because of my ethnicity. But don’t worry, Indians are a generous people, so I’ve even thrown in a free side: a local delicacy called a dash of not giving a d***.”
He returns to the kitchen, and the regular decides to complain to the owner. I wasn’t privy to that conversation, but the regular became less regular after that. We got a surprise visit from a government inspector a few weeks later, claiming we were hiring an illegal immigrant chef, which came as a shock to Chicago-born Vasu.
