Many Layers To Their Stupidity

, , , , , | Working | July 27, 2020

Out with my partner at an Italian restaurant, I order a pasta dish and specify that I am allergic to raw onions and garlic; my body overreacts to the compound that makes most people cry.

This is a snooty and expensive restaurant. Over $300 — along with a comfortable tip — is dropped on this meal for the two of us and the waiter is well-to-do and rather snobbish.

When my plate arrives, a long stock of green onion is stabbed into the middle of it as a garnish.

Me: “Hold on. I told you I’m allergic to raw onions.”

Waiter: “There’s— There’s no raw onion here.”

Me: “But… what’s this?”

Waiter: “That’s a green onion stalk.”

Me: “What is it?”

Waiter: “A green onion.”

Me: “Without the colour.”

Waiter: *Pause* “Green onion.”

Me: “Okay. Without the first word.”

Waiter: “Green—”

Me: “No! Wait! Not that word, the second word.”

Waiter: “Onion.”

Me: “Yeah.”

The waiter stares, motionless, at me and I say:

Me: “I know I wasn’t clear about the severity of the allergy, but it is anaphylactic. I need new sauce that hasn’t touched any raw onions.”

I got my new dish and all was good, but to this day, I now always order, “No raw onions, green onions, spring onions, or garlic, please. It’s an allergy.” My friends all know my spiel as well as I do and will sometimes do it for me if it pleases them.

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