Locus Horribilis

The service industry will whittle down your soul, and it will do so quickly.  There are days so packed full of horrendous nonsense that you become quickly convinced in certain superstitions  Not for long, of course, as later on you think about it and realize that there are perfectly reasonable explanation as to why only assholes visited you that day (yesterday’s excuse may have been the boxing match).
But as it is happening, as the tables you are serving are asking you to modify a dish seven different ways and plated on three different dishes, you start to wonder where exactly you broke that mirror.

One table asked for their soup to be puréed.  Going back into the kitchen to ask the staff to that gets you some pretty terrible looks.  Their faces drop, like you just walked in to announce that they have all been sacked.  With resignation , they agree.  A puréed soup, of course, is for a child, who promptly spills it all over the ground, forcing you to go back in the kitchen and make the request all over again.  This time the kitchens looks at you as if you walked in and said unflattering things about their mothers.  But they do it, and you walk away from the table before anything gets get worse.

At another table, the male component of a young couple on a date (potentially their first), asked a number of moronic questions.  The jewel of these was when I was asked how the goat cheese was.  Now, in context of a pizza topping, I am not exactly sure how the question is meant to be answered.
Tangy, sir. Well, that would have eliminated a tip, not that they tipped particularly well to begin with.

I could go on…