When my dad started dating Linda she brought her obsession with “proper dining etiquette” into our house. Every meal had to follow her fancy restaurant rules – cloth napkins folded correctly, specific fork usage, and absolutely no talking with food in your mouth. I messed up once by reaching across the table for salt. Linda lectured me for twenty minutes about “civilized dining standards” and how I was “embarrassing the family.” When I pointed out we were eating pizza, she said “Proper etiquette applies to every meal, regardless of cuisine.”
The next time we had dinner, I went full fine dining server. “Good evening, distinguished guests, welcome to Chez Johnson. I’m your server Michael and I’ll be guiding you through tonight’s culinary journey.” Linda’s eyes widened but I wasn’t stopping. I started describing our leftover spaghetti like a five-star restaurant. “Tonight’s featured entrée is our signature pasta marinara.”
I created elaborate backstories for every dish. “Our chicken nuggets are free-range poultry, delicately breaded and flash-fried to golden perfection, accompanied by our artisanal honey mustard reduction.” Linda tried to interrupt but I just kept going. “For our vegetable course, we present garden-fresh frozen peas, individually selected and steamed to maintain optimal texture and nutritional integrity.”
I started taking dinner orders with a notepad. When my little sister asked for mac and cheese, I responded, “Excellent choice, madam. Our truffle-infused cheddar pasta is a customer favorite. Would you prefer the classic preparation or our upgraded version?” Linda’s face was turning red but I continued writing everything down professionally.
The situation escalated when I began presenting bills after meals. “Your dining experience tonight totals $47.50. We accept cash, credit, or household chores as payment.” I even created comment cards asking guests to rate their experience and suggest improvements to our family dining establishment.
I started wearing a bow tie to dinner and speaking with a fake French accent. “Ah, Madame Linda, ze dining room ees ready for your arrival. Tonight we ‘ave prepared ze magnificent feast of… ‘ow you say… Hot Pockets.” I would pull out chairs dramatically and describe the evening’s “wine selection” – which was just different flavored juice boxes.
Things peaked when Linda’s parents came for Sunday dinner. I greeted them at the door with a clipboard. “Welcome to Restaurant Johnson, do you ‘ave a reservation? I see you’re ze VIP guests, magnifique! Right zis way to your table.” I handed them leather-bound menus I’d created, complete with elaborate descriptions of mom’s pot roast as “slow-braised beef medallions in rich burgundy jus.”
Linda was mortified when I started explaining the “chef’s special preparation methods” to her parents. “Ze chef ‘as been perfecting zis recipe since ze morning of today, using ze finest ingredients from ze local grocery establishment.” Her dad was trying not to laugh while her mom looked confused.
The final straw came when I installed a reservation system and started charging a “table fee.” I put up a sign: “Restaurant Johnson – Reservations Required, Dress Code Enforced, No Outside Food Permitted.” When Linda’s book club friends came over, I made them wait in the living room while I “prepared their table” and offered them appetizers of crackers arranged on fancy plates.
Linda finally confronted me when she found me creating Yelp reviews for our family dinners. “Michael, this has gone too far,” she said, holding my notebook full of customer feedback forms. “You’re making a mockery of proper dining etiquette.” “Au contraire,” I replied in my terrible French accent, “I am simply elevating our ‘ome dining experience to ze professional standards you requested.”
She stared at my detailed service logs and customer satisfaction surveys before shaking her head and laughing. “You’ve turned our kitchen into an actual restaurant,” she said, flipping through pages of menu descriptions and dining protocols. “Of course,” I replied, “ze customer service must be impeccable, non?”
The next day, Linda quietly retired her dining etiquette rules. Now we eat pizza with our hands like civilized people, and nobody cares if I reach for the salt.
3 Comments
Mhm salt with pizza
Exactly what I was going to say
salt with pizza 🌚