Fork Me?

Fork Me? No, Fork You!

Sal Rodriguez

I was at an International House of Pancakes today, and as the waiter served my plate he accidentally knocked over my fork. He then picked it up off of the floor and said, "I'll get you another fork." He went behind a partition; I could see his hands fiddle around. He returned with a fork. I think it was the same fork. I have no evidence to support my claim; it's just that I have no trust for food preparers and food servers. I'm sure they're nice people with loving hearts, it's just that I always think that they have fun with our food. For this reason I'm always very nice to people who cook and serve my food because I don't want them putting hairs, spit, or snot on my plate because they think I have an attitude, or their girlfriend just left them.

The other night my friend Thom and I were ordering burgers at IN-N-OUT. The person on the other end of the speaker gave me a smart-aleck response to one of my statements. But just as my friend was about to call him on it I was quick to stop him, "No way, don't make him angry," I said, "They're making our food. They probably have a cup of phlegm that they dip the bun into when a customer annoys them." Hey this bun sure is moist!

My eldest brother John told me about his employment at Sizzler when he was in his teens. He said that whenever a patron sent-back a steak, in particularly if the customer was considered rude, the cooks would slap each other on their bare butts with the steak. This sounds like the cooks had some sort of weird fetish. I'm sure it'll only be a matter of time before they dedicate a website to steak-butt-slapping: www.slappysirloin.com.

My friend Joe, shortly after high school, told me about some guys he knew that worked at a Six Flags Magic Mountain burger shack. These guys found the need to urinate in the pickle jar. I've never eaten a burger from Magic Mountain since. Actually, I wouldn't even eat one without the urine soaked pickles. If I eat a burger at an amusement park the person seated in front of me on the roller coaster had better be wearing a shower cap.

Where was I? Oh yeah, steak-butt-slapping. You would think that I wouldn't eat out, but I do so quite often. I just assume that no one in the kitchen washes their hands, covers their mouth when they sneeze, or rinses off the food if they drop it on the floor. I've accepted this fact, or this notion rather. These are the things that I think about, which is not surprising coming from the guy who flushes public toilets with his foot. I also wash my hands both before and after using the restroom. The first time's for me; the second time's for you.

I don't profess to do absolutely anything to assuage my fears. On one occasion, at a Taco Bell, the lady making my tacos was noticeably sick. She was rubbing her nose, wiping her eyes; I didn't see her wash her hands or wear gloves. I sat there in my car thinking, "Oh my gosh, I can't believe this lady is making my food. She probably has tuberculosis." No sooner did I complete this thought when I was interrupted by her asking me if I wanted hot sauce. I said, "Yes," grabbed my bag, drove off, and proceeded to eat my tacos. I just realized that Taco Bell has the same initials as tuberculosis - TB.

So, back to IHOP. I could have sworn that the waiter gave me a look of "You don't know that the fork in your mouth was on the floor." Either that or he had something in his eye, because he did give me odd looks.

IHOP has the letters to explain my dilemma - IHOPethatforkwasclean! Maybe I'll ask next week. I eat there every Friday morning, that is unless I die after contracting Hepatitis A, B, C, D, E, F, G, from Carrow's today.