But what is it about dressing transvestites in civvies and standing
them out front-of-house in classy restaurants and eateries that makes them so
friggin’ surly and offensive?
My first experience with a grumpy transvestite waiter/ess
was many years ago while working as a lowly volunteer in wonderful Samoa. In those days, Apia wasn’t quite the bastion
of fine dining it pretends to be today, but even then, with the right financial
backing, one could aspire to some quality fare in either one of the two-and-a-half
star hotels overlooking the harbour.
I can’t quite remember what the occasion was that saw the
yet-to-be-Mrs Donkey and I deciding to splurge three week’s pay on a slap-up,
pool side lunch, but it was with great excitement and culinary anticipation
that we found ourselves deliberating at length over what seemed to us to be an
extraordinarily diverse menu. In reality
the selection probably wasn’t all that spectacular given that on this occasion
I opted for a BLT, and I was already salivating like Pavlov’s dogs the day the
dinner bell got back from the repair shop when the grotesque fa’afafine waiter/ess finally condescended
to lift her enormous muli off her
groaning stool and to waddle over to take down our order (which she did with a
frosty scowl and neither small talk of her own, nor acknowledgement of ours).
An age later, we were alerted to her return by the air of
inky black storm clouds her demeanour impressed upon the atmosphere, and
despite the warning, we both jumped with fright as two catering-strength
crockery plates angrily crashed onto the glass table top.
Immediately I noticed that my BLT had lost some ‘L’ along
the way, that its ‘T’ had been replaced with orange processed cheese and that
the ‘B’ had morphed into a thick slice of Spam.
I turned to my happy waiter/ess to alert her to the mistake, only to
discover that her massive behind was already thumping off into the distance to
get as far away from anything resembling a customer as possible.
After some minutes of mundane deliberations with Mrs D about
whether I should alert the surly old cow to the mistake or just to ‘suck it up’
and eat the congealing mess before me so as not to offend, I finally decided,
in recognition of the cost and excitement of the occasion, to stick to my guns
and ask for my BLT. I strode
purposefully across the concourse to find our congenial Miss, who barely
listened to my complaint before dismissing it with an offhand, yet aggressive,
“You ordered a cheese and ham sandwich”.
At this I nearly choked on the angry sobs leaping to my
throat, but I reined-in my fury by firmly assuring her that I certainly did
not, and heaved against her anchoring bulk to drag her over to inspect my soggy
meal as some kind of proof that I would never have ordered such a mess. Firmly, and with no small hint of steel, I
demand she take the dish back, and return with my “Bee-Elle-Tea!”.
Perhaps sensing that my levels of anger and aggression were
approaching her own, she tried one more sly parry to ward off the exertion of
having to walk the full ten metres back to the kitchen. “Well who’s going to eat this, then?”, she
spat, to which I finally lost all composure, “I don’t care … why don’t you eat
it?”. And she literally stamped her
massive hoof in anger as she ungraciously snatched my plate off the table (sending
a congealing glob of orange cheese across the condiments and onto Mrs Donkey’s
glasses) and tut-tutted off to the kitchen.
After what seemed many hours, my BLT finally arrived and was
smashed onto the table in front of me with a thundery stare that made it all
too clear what sort of response I’d receive if I dared any further exchange on
the issue of my meal. I shouldn’t have
been surprised to discover that while lettuce and tomato were now present on my
plate, the ‘B’ remained a thick slice of Spam with curious orange butter-knife
striations along its surface.
Upon our exit, our wonderful hostess mumbled one last grumpy
remark regarding our failure to leave a tip … I wish I’d thought to retort that
an untouched BLT was more tip than she deserved … but I’m no Oscar Wilde.
Jump ahead 12 years, and the culinary delights of sunny Port
Vila, with its French-inspired cuisine and bustling tourist traffic, is bound
to entice. But there comes a time when
even Donkey can have too much of a good thing, and after 10 weeks straight of
eating lunches of Vanuatu beef sautéed in butter and drowned in blue cheese
sauce, I was looking for something a little … less heavy.
So I wandered along to the most popular patisserie in town
and stood for an agonisingly long time to be noticed by the surly maître’ d, who when he eventually turned
his heavily-shadowed lids in my direction, gave me an unimpressed once-over and
simply walked-off towards an empty table.
Upon reaching his destination, he turned and fixed me a filthy stare in
reprimand for my failure to follow, and as I clumsily closed the space between
us, he had already slapped the menu down on the table and disappeared.
Menu read and decision-made in 1 minute and 17 seconds …
waited to place order with angry transvestite waiter for well over 7 minutes (he
only consenting to leave his podium when I stood up and waved him over). He managed to take my order without ejecting
upon me the bile that my presence seem to be generating in his throat, but I
waited for almost an hour for my sandwich to arrive. When it did, it was delivered to my table
with all the aggression and clattering pomp that only seven years of study at
the Pacific Regional Hospitality Training College for Surly, Disgruntled Transsexuals
can instil.
Owing to the lack of choice for reasonable lunch options in
the town, I have become exposed to this waiter’s angry countenance at least
twice a week, and I run into him in the town at least every couple of days, yet
despite my attempts at jovial exchange, his demeanour remains unhappy,
unimpressed and decidedly unfriendly.
These are just two examples of grumpy transvestite waiting
staff I have encountered throughout the world.
There have been others; the grimacing burger flipper at the Elwood Fish
‘n’ Chip shop, the huge café proprietor in Kolkata who unashamedly serves up
whatever she wants to timid, pasty backpackers, regardless of their order, or
the young transvestite working at the Phuket eatery who simply refuses to wait
on any white male unless he is quite openly gay. This is not Donkey’s imagination, nor is it
some kind of homophobic slur … I am just surprised that these lady boys bother
with food service when it quite clearly doesn’t agree with them. Let’s face it, there’s nothing glamorous about
serving sandwiches to upstart white tourists with too much money, but surely there
are other jobs they could be doing? Alternatively,
if transvestite waiting staff by day decided to lend their night-time,
floorshow flare to the taking-down of sandwich orders, they may just receive
more of a smile and an equally affable tip at meal’s end.
Of course, there is every chance that the demeanour of these
transvestite waiters is just a reaction to me.
My friend Brad once told me that I am way too butch to be an attractive
option for a gay man … maybe my attempts at friendliness with gay waiting staff
are mistaken for overtures, and like a heterosexual male bogan from Ipswich
receiving unwanted approaches from a drunken, ugly broad while he’s trying to
watch the rugby league game, their response is one of aggressive rejection.
Get your own f’ing coffee! Pic:
aaronandandy.com