A sign that New York is getting under my skin: Yesterday I complained to a waiter for the first time. To be fair, the menu advertised a molten chocolate cake with homemade ganache; we received a slice of store-bought German Chocolate Cake. Girlfriend HATES German Chocolate Cake. German Chocolate Cake night back in our dining hall at college was the WORST. Tell me, does it not look like someone threw up all over the cake? It does. It does.
So when the waiter came over and asked if we'd like our sadly-poked slice of cake boxed up, I explained that we were confused about the GULF OF MEXICO-sized gulf between what was on the menu and what appeared on our plate. He had stupid hair, and he looked at me with this brain-dead expression on his face. Then he went away and told our server that I was "very upset." Which made me throw my head into my hands in shame, flush bright red, and affirm that I would never again complain in a restaurant.
These acts of bravery can misfire. We were clear on that, right?
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