Do You Know How It Works In Here?

Have you noticed this question popping up in restaurants recently? Waiters and waitresses asking you if you know how it works? I’ve asked a few people about it, so I know it’s not just me. You go into a restaurant, you get seated, the waiter comes over and asks, “Do you know how it works in here?”

Now, the first time I was asked this question was in a Spanish tapas place and I can understand that they might want to make sure that new customers know that it works a wee bit differently in there. They don’t want customers drooling at the prospect of a main course for £3.50 and then demanding to know what the fucking script is with the tiny plate. However, I’ve since been asked it in more traditional restaurants and was most recently asked it in a TGI Friday’s.

I assured the waiter in TGI Friday’s, who had loads of lollipops or condoms or something stuck to his baseball cap, that I did know how it works but as he walked away I was left with a nagging doubt – Do you really? Do you really know how it works in here? I started to get scared. I worried that my whole life would have the rug pulled out from underneath it when they brought me my Jack Daniel’s glazed chicken.

As the night wore on, it seemed that it actually worked in the traditional way; order food, eat food and pay for food. You might be familiar with this approach to eating out if you’ve eaten out anywhere in the world in either the current or the previous century.

I left the place, relieved not to have been exposed as some kind of restaurant dwelling ignoramus. A bespectacled pig in cream slacks and a corduroy bomber jacket, grunting dementedly, speaking in swine farts, unable to grasp the most basic concepts of dining in public.

Later that night I was awoken by a knock at my door. I grabbed the old claw hammer from under the bed and headed downstairs. Kneeling at my front door was the waiter from TGI Friday’s. He’d obviously been battered about the face. Blood and bruise was all over it. I could see the end of his condom hat sticking out of the side of his ruined mouth. He was kneeling with a revolver pointed at his head. Pressed into his temple, actually, by a man who was also wearing a TGI Friday’s uniform. A Steve Buscemi-like wee guy. His nametag read ‘KRISS’ and his hat was of the Papa Smurf variety.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” asked Kriss. “But did this waiter here ask you if knew how it worked in our restaurant this evening?”

“God, please tell him I did. Please!” begged the waiter.

I told Kriss that I had indeed been asked that very question.

“Thank you! Thank you!” cried the waiter through snotters and bleeding gums.

“And what did you reply, sir?” asked Kriss.

“I told him that I did know how it works.” I said.

Kriss let out a big exaggerated sigh and put the gun in his pocket. He removed his Papa Smurf hat and pulled the weeping waiter to his feet.

“Clearly, sir, you have no idea how it works! No idea at all. But because you lied about it I almost had to blow this poor boy’s fucking brains out all over my wacky shoes. Next time you eat in TGI Friday’s tell your waiter or waitress that you do NOT know how it works and you will receive clear instructions on how it DOES work. Then we can perhaps avoid the chaos you brought upon our little place tonight.”

And with that they marched off.

Lesson learned. Lesson. Learned.