jan milliman

In which I learn the value of complaining.

I often have a hard time speaking up. I’ve let folks block my view at concerts because they seemed so happy dancing, even though a security guard offered to ask them to sit down. I’ve kept quiet about annoyances at work until I was ready to burst. And my husband tells me I don’t even “order” when at a restaurant — instead I sound as if I’m asking permission for my meal.

But a recent lunch out has served to give me a little wake up call about how far I’ve let things go.

I was dining with a friend at a lovely local eatery. We were both tempted by several items on the menu, and after much deliberation we made our decisions. She would have a cup of soup and half a turkey sandwich on wheat bread (chosen because the chicken salad had nuts and her child has an allergy), and I would opt for the cup of soup and half a chicken salad sandwich on wheat (because I am almost physically unable to pass up a dish that includes nuts).

We gave our orders to the incredibly nice waitresses and settled in to chat. Another waitress arrived at our table a short while later bearing two identical lunches: cup of soup and half a chicken salad sandwich on white. We looked at each other and silently communicated “should we say something?”

I know I was thinking, “Well, mine is close enough. I don’t want to be a bother.” I’m guessing my friend was thinking along the same lines. So we accepted the not-quite-right sandwiches. “It’s fine,” we decided after the waitress left. We tucked into our meals and they were delightful.

And then the second waitress came out again, but this time with our lunches. She attempted to deliver them to another table. Oh dear. That table was having none of the mix-up, and the waitress was pretty peeved with us for noshing away on the wrong order.

We felt terrible. The minutes while the other diners sat with no food dragged by. The original waitress came out and brought my friend her turkey sandwich. We tried to apologize and the first waitress was sweet about it, but the air was filled with the disapproval of the second waitress.

A lovely visit almost hit the skids just because I couldn’t speak up and say “That’s not my lunch.” Such a shame!

So what is the moral of my tale of the misappropriated meal? A simple vow: I’ll never eat white bread when I ordered wheat again.