REFLECTIVE MOMENTS Servers anxious to offer take-out containers

If there were a medal offered for speed-eating, I would be at the very rear end of the competition, having been out-chewed by everyone capable of handling a knife and fork.

In my growing-up years, the lesson taught was to eat slowly so as to avoid indigestion. The health guide from school ordered children of that era to chew each mouthful of soft food from five to 10 times before swallowing. Foodstuffs such as meat and dense vegetables should be chewed at least 30 times. And bites were to be mouth-sized, thus my small mouth would only accommodate smaller bites but even those smaller bites would require the same amount of chewing.

That, by way of explanation, is why to this very day, I am a slow eater, chewing carefully and swallowing what has been chewed, followed by sips of water or other available beverages.

Friends are resigned to the fact that I will still be eating long after they have finished their meals and have stud- For Moose Jaw Express ied the dessert menu or have even calculated the cost of the meal and have their cash or credit cards ready for the bill.

Now if only servers in restaurants would learn that some customers are slower than others and cannot, or definitely should not, be rushed out of the establishment. And how rude of them to offer a take-out container when one hasn’t been requested.

On a recent out-of-city trip, I was enjoying a prime rib buffet dinner, complete with salad and dessert bar and long lines of eager eaters. I gathered my food ahead of Housemate who saved our table, then I began eating while he went to the line. Even by starting last, he finished first, salad, main courses and dessert. I was still enjoying my prime rib and the chicken when the server came to take Housemate’s plate. Then she came to my side of the table and put her hand on my plate. I grabbed it away before she could steal the remainder of my meal. “I’m not finished,” I told her, talking with my mouth full, which I know is bad manners but short of stabbing her hand with my fork, how was I to stop her?

She apologized profusely and even offered a shoulder hug, which I endured as my prime rib got cold. Housemate, of course, was amused. I was not.

The next night, after a scary taxi ride, we were seated at a favourite restaurant chain that does not exist in Saskatchewan. We ordered our food, received our soup and salad and bread sticks, and then the main course. The food was as good as I remembered from a previous visit.

Housemate had finished his soup, part of my salad, several bread sticks and his entree plus a refill of his beverage while I carefully chewed my way through my chicken and angel hair pasta served in a special sauce. Chew, chew, chew, then swallow. A tiny portion of the plate became visible.

“Should I bring you a take-out container?” the server asked.

“No thank you, I don’t want a container. I’m enjoying my meal right here,” I responded as she looked at me as though I were taking up valuable space that could be used for another customer. Again Housemate thought it was a hoot. I was not hooting, I was chewing and savouring.

It was at least another 20 minutes before my brain registered that my stomach was full and I could stop chewing. It was a wonderful meal and I enjoyed every bite.

The server was delighted when we said we would take our dessert to go — in one of her prized take-out containers.

Joyce Walter can be reached at ronjoy@sasktel.net