Done With You

(I work as a server, attending to a husband and wife. From the get-go, I get the sense that the wife is looking for something to be mad about. The husband, meanwhile, was quite affable and desperately trying to make up for his wife’s grouchiness by being extra pleasant. Taking their order, she is very specific about how she wants her salad, which is fine, and I take great pains to ensure it come out from the kitchen correctly. When I deliver their meals, the husband starts chowing down, but the wife spends a good five minutes inspecting her dish. Finally, after ostensibly finding nothing wrong with her meal, she sighs heavily and eats her meal. Since she looks so unhappy, I check up a few more times than usual, just to cover my own butt.)

Me: “Is everything to your liking?”

Husband: “Oh, yes. I really enjoyed the food.”

(The wife didn’t say much of anything, choosing instead to mutter under her breath. Finally, I notice that their plates are empty, so I go to pre-bus their table. The husband sheepishly thanks me for an excellent meal. Now, her plate is completely empty; no sauce to lick up, nothing. I go to take it away, when…)

Customer: “HEY! Why are you taking that away?! Did I say I was done?!”

Me: “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am! I assumed as much because the plate is completely empty.”

Customer: *looks at her own plate* “…Oh, I guess I WAS done!”