Day 6 - Pasta Girl
For a time, I only went to one restaurant - the one right downstairs the office - for lunch, everyday. My cigarettes in tow, a few copies of magazines and newspapers to catch up, order my iced coffee and Mongolian chicken chop, and have my one hour break from publishing insanity. The owners are a middle-aged Malaysian Chinese couple who also man the restaurant, and who have known me for most of the years I've been here in Malaysia. We always chit-chat about work, a bit about business and politics and current events, and they've always treated me like a regular, which I was.
One fine afternoon - and this is a story I've discussed at length with co-workers - of exceptionally stressful deadline-chasing at work, I ran down to Pasta Boy Cafe to chill out. As I sat smoking, a middle-aged guy walks in with his family of four - his wife and two teenaged kids. He sat in the smoking area at the table next to mine, and while his family followed suit, he started coughing wildly and exaggeratedly, in increasing volume and towards my direction, huffing and puffing in Malay. I was oblivious to this and continued to be, until finally, miserably, he hollered at my back, "HEY," in English, "HEY STOP THAT BAD SMOKING."
I turned around, eyebrows up, held up my hand holding the cigarette, and nodded my head. I'll finish it, fine. A few seconds later, the owner lady scuttles to me and puts her arm around my shoulders, "Girl," she says affectionately like the Chinese do, "Customer complaining la sorry girl." She was whispering, so I whispered back, "I know, Aunty, I'll kill it soon, but they can sit in the non-smoking area la, no one there." She nodded ever so solemnly, I know, I know, but customers, what can I do. "If you want, you can go outside and smoke," she added.
I pointed at the smoking sign and the ashtray she put at my table. But my rights! I implored quietly. You gave me the right to smoke here! She gave my shoulders a quick squeeze and shuffled off.
As I paid my bill, both she and her husband continued whispering to me conspiratorially, "What a rude man," they said, "so sorry la girl, you know he's really rude and he's not even a regular customer!" And I said to them, I says, "But I'M a regular, Uncle, I come here everyday and I bring all my friends and I give you good business, and you know me, and he's not even a regular customer and you let him yell at me."
I was so heartbroken I was going to cry, but it was immediately replaced with anger. No. I didn't break any rules. I wasn't rude. I go to this restaurant specifically because I can smoke and eat lunch, and no, I won't have it.
And that's the story of Pasta Boy, and why the girl who smokes and her friends and colleagues don't go to Pasta Boy anymore (at least not together).
Of course smoking is terrible, but it was a designated place and there was no need for yelling. It's very difficult to argue the rightness of something so wrong, but no one can argue how bad and embarrassing that felt.
One fine afternoon - and this is a story I've discussed at length with co-workers - of exceptionally stressful deadline-chasing at work, I ran down to Pasta Boy Cafe to chill out. As I sat smoking, a middle-aged guy walks in with his family of four - his wife and two teenaged kids. He sat in the smoking area at the table next to mine, and while his family followed suit, he started coughing wildly and exaggeratedly, in increasing volume and towards my direction, huffing and puffing in Malay. I was oblivious to this and continued to be, until finally, miserably, he hollered at my back, "HEY," in English, "HEY STOP THAT BAD SMOKING."
I turned around, eyebrows up, held up my hand holding the cigarette, and nodded my head. I'll finish it, fine. A few seconds later, the owner lady scuttles to me and puts her arm around my shoulders, "Girl," she says affectionately like the Chinese do, "Customer complaining la sorry girl." She was whispering, so I whispered back, "I know, Aunty, I'll kill it soon, but they can sit in the non-smoking area la, no one there." She nodded ever so solemnly, I know, I know, but customers, what can I do. "If you want, you can go outside and smoke," she added.
I pointed at the smoking sign and the ashtray she put at my table. But my rights! I implored quietly. You gave me the right to smoke here! She gave my shoulders a quick squeeze and shuffled off.
As I paid my bill, both she and her husband continued whispering to me conspiratorially, "What a rude man," they said, "so sorry la girl, you know he's really rude and he's not even a regular customer!" And I said to them, I says, "But I'M a regular, Uncle, I come here everyday and I bring all my friends and I give you good business, and you know me, and he's not even a regular customer and you let him yell at me."
I was so heartbroken I was going to cry, but it was immediately replaced with anger. No. I didn't break any rules. I wasn't rude. I go to this restaurant specifically because I can smoke and eat lunch, and no, I won't have it.
And that's the story of Pasta Boy, and why the girl who smokes and her friends and colleagues don't go to Pasta Boy anymore (at least not together).
Of course smoking is terrible, but it was a designated place and there was no need for yelling. It's very difficult to argue the rightness of something so wrong, but no one can argue how bad and embarrassing that felt.
~END~
This post is part of a series of photos and stories very creatively called
Oh Lord, That was terrible of that customer. When will he grow up? I don't like that you smoke, but that doesn't mean I have to be a jerk about it. If I see you smoking at a table and want to eat, but don't want to be near you, I will sit further away from you. I may not be happy about it, but smoking is your right. Too bad the customer is always right even when they are not. It's hard to find a place where the owners stand up for you, and hard for them too. Unfortunately, in Malaysia, most of us just want to keep our heads down and not cause a scene. (I'm guilty of this too.)
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