Dress code

It's one of the things that annoys the shit out of me. Not as grossly, but almost literally.

After making sure I don't forget my room card, I take the elevator down to the restaurant and take a table for two in the far corner. I bring my iPad, so I'm checking my e-mail, dropping lines back and checking if someone's on Skype. There's a couple of rather loud couples scattered at tables around me, but I'm too hungry to care.

I sit there and nothing happens. I don't know if I'm invisible, but I surely don't think I am. Waiters walk around, busy around some fancy people, and I'm not getting less hungry. All of a sudden there is a waitress, obviously intended to go through the back entrance, who notices me and stops abruptly:

- Are you okay there?

- Yes, thank you. Could you tell me what beers you have?

She looks around, as if to receive a confirmation from someone and asks me a counter question:

- How did you get in?

Slightly annoyed, because I know where this is going, I explain that I came for dinner from upstairs.

- Oh, I didn't see you there...

She pretty much leaves it hanging in the air, as if waiting for further explanation as to how I got teleported to the restaurant table.

- Are you staying at the hotel?

I'm going purple.

Yes, I'm staying in the fucking hotel! Just because I'm not suffocating in a suit and a tie doesn't mean I rocked up from the neighbourhood squat!

- Yes, I am. Could I have a pint of Fat Yak?

She scans me again, probably checking for my wallet.

- I will get a menu and then I'll tell you what kinds of beer we have.

She walks away toward the reception, exchanges a couple of words with other staff, and they all give me a bit of a glance from afar. One day I'll flip out and make such a scene I'll get kicked out from the chain of hotels for sure. But it will probably be worth it.

After I finally ordered the beer and got the menu, I kindly ask for Gorgonzola gnocchi and Rocket salad.

- Both at the same time?

I'm just blinking there. Like when you drop a glass and someone asks you if you dropped a glass. No, I climbed the Everest. I wish I had a glass. I'd like to break at least one now.

- Yes, please.

- Very well. It won't be long.

Those were, truth be told, her first nice words to me. Don't get me wrong - I'm not the classiest man out there, but wearing grey trousers and a dark blue top doesn't mean I'm a homeless person crashing a dinner. Besides, I have my room key on my table and I ask to check if they just charge it to my room.

Bottom line, even if I were a rock star, the prime minister's son, a hobo or a businessman, you're expected to serve me if I'm sitting at the table. At least be polite and ask me questions (if needed) in a polite manner. I could easily be a billionaire, coming down for dinner in my pyjamas - who the fuck cares?! And who the hell dares  judge?!

It just pisses me off so badly! Just because I'm not all suited up, I get scanned and doubted. Even in Australia, where everyone's pierced and tattooed and what not. I was outraged by both the circumstances and the attitude.

There could be a guy running a brothel on the 14th floor, but his suit would surely ask as an immunity cloak. Twenty-year-old volunteers sit in their T-shirts and no one doubts they can pay for their beer. Fuck that, and fuck you!

The food was nice and tasty alright, but everything else was sour. Judgemental, shallow, scared... That's what you are! And if you're treating all your customers that way, good luck!

I'm not getting into a fight with people who handle my food - I'm not that stupid. But I have a slight feeling that the next time it happens I won't give a fuck anymore...