Why you must never be too eager

There's a new Japanese restaurant downstairs from my office. Well, nineteen flights of stairs, actually, or one elevator trip. Also, I can't actually use the stairs even if I wanted to, or I risk making a scene when the fire alarm makes a sound. "Emergency. Nineteenth floor."

Anyway, there's a new Japanese restaurant downstairs from my office. It just opened last month, although for months it said "opens January 2014".

I wasn't particularly excited about it, but hey, at least it's an option when I find myself eating alone and I don't feel like walking a long distance. Today was one of those days - I had a late breakfast with Rainy and, therefore, ate lunch late, like in the old days, when I'd grab a bite at one in the afternoon - so I decided to give the place a try.

I went in and stood far from the counter, because, of course, I had to choose which item to buy. The usual stuff, really. Tempura (or, as they spell it, "tenpura" - it's also a correct way of saying the name of what essentially is a Japanese take on a Portuguese dish), katsu, sushi, curry. I had lots to choose from, and I didn't know what I was in the mood for, and there's also my tendency to take forever to choose. I mean, just ask Rainy.

"Sir, baka gusto po ninyo ng combo," the girl at the counter - the counter that's a good six feet away from me - waved at me.

Or maybe she didn't say that. But I'm sure she said something about a combo. A combo meal. I had earphones plugged in. I'm isolating myself, yes, and making myself unavailable for conversation, yes, but I am eating alone anyway, and I want to choose my lunch in peace. Or relative peace, considering the songs playing in my ear.

"Sir," another girl at the counter waved. She said something I definitely didn't understand.

I was standing where I stood for a good minute or two now, still picking. Sure, maybe it is an annoying thing to do, but it's not like I'm running out of seats, right? The place was packed, yes - packed with the restaurant's employees.

"Sir," yet another girl at the counter went, taking a laminated menu, raising it with her arms, and waving it, so I could see it, while my head was trained up to the menu display above her. She said something I no longer want to understand.

"Ang ingay ninyo!" I said, and, flustered, I walked out of the restaurant.

I know those girls were just doing their jobs, but come on. I committed to eating in the restaurant downstairs, a commitment I solidified by actually stepping through the heavy glass doors. I am obviously taking my time in picking an item, because, frankly, I couldn't choose. (I mean, I like Japanese food, whether it's fast or not-so-fast.) At one point I will make a decision, and when that time comes, I will walk to the counter and tell them what I'll be having. But no. They wanted to present me options, from far away, when I'd rather make that choice myself.

I know I'm sounding like a bitchy guy with no friends and no prospects in life, a guy who's complaining about everything to be noticed. (Think about it. In writing this, who benefits? The only person I know who'll likely read this is Allene, and she is a vegetarian.) But, really, I am still entitled to my personal space even if I am in your house. You can help me out, but you do not get too eager to serve me, to hasten the natural process, so maybe you can get a paycheck or something at the end of the day.

I am never eating at that Japanese restaurant downstairs. Unless I really have no choice... but then again I can just buy some takeaway and have that at my desk.

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