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As a waiter, Manuel was a marvel. He recited daily specials and answered menu questions with the rote confidence of a Rhodes Scholar. From taking orders to delivering dishes, he never wrote things down nor mixed things up.
Manuel worked at a Scottsdale Mexican restaurant I used to frequent with my then-wife and children on Sundays after church. We took note of his exceptional service and began requesting to be sat in his station.
“We want Manuel,” was the way my daughter put it to the hosts at the door in those days. Spoiled by the triple cherry Shirley Temples he’d treat her and little brother to, Brittany echoed the appreciation we felt for our favorite server.
Whisked away to one of Manuel’s tables, we’d pretty much cheer when he’d appear, which eventually led to him taking almost a bullfighter’s noble bows before us, doffing an imaginary cap while clutching his trusty cocktail tray against his side as though it were some scarlet cape. Then, to the applause of little Brittany and Tim, Manuel would spin that disc on one fingertip while letting us in on the daily food and drink features.
“But I’m guessing you’ll be having your usual,” Manuel would smartly segue, always guessing right. “Two Cadillac Margs, one no salt, and a side of salsa macha with the chips for the grownups.”
We rarely needed to say a word. But there was something I needed to do that day which even Manuel couldn’t do for me.
“My back teeth are floating,” I let the wife know I had to go in my best Cheech & Chong impersonation of a line borrowed from their “Pedro and Man at the Drive-Inn” skit.
“Why can’t you ever just excuse yourself without being crude?” Wifey rolled her eyes toward the kids while they just giggled. But we dads are just guys in disguise, right, fellas? Give me potty humor liberties or give me death.
Then again, as funny as bodily functions can be, even we men have our limits, and I was about to bump into mine. Seconds into my pit stop, I suddenly found myself in familiar company. Manuel had popped in, and according to proper male restroom protocol, wordlessly stepped up to the one urinal next to mine and proceeded to do his business. There were no acknowledgements or eye contact. Even so, I couldn’t ignore what the man was openly dangling in purely peripheral sight. For some inexplicable reason which eludes me even now, Manuel’s service tray remained attached to him — tucked under an arm — as he relieved himself. Sure, I’d watched him spinning it with almost second-skin afterthought. Still, the notion of it there against the porcelain with him screamed inexcusable as my mind went right to the number of back-splash hits this thing would be taking before being toted back out into the dining room. Not only shit happens in life. The specter of pee spatter is ever present in a man’s world as well.
Thoughts swimming in such nastiness, I stood there even after I’d finished, waiting for Manuel’s next move. Trying to get a grip on what I’d just witnessed, I held onto the hope he’d realize his major misstep, own it, toss the tray in the trash, and plead with me to keep the whole disgusting situation our little secret. Had he done so, I would have let the whole thing go, I suppose. But that didn’t happen. For the record, Manuel didn’t even bother to wash his hands before getting back to work.
“Get up, we’re going,” I reached for my wife, getting back before Manuel’s next table touch.
“Going?” She was startled. “What’s wrong?”
“C’mon, kids,” I insisted. “Dad has to leave. We’ll come back later.”
“But he’s here with our drinks,” wife pointed behind me, completely confused. And sure enough, there he was just over my shoulder, with drinks, chips, and salsas in tow. On that tray. I reached in my wallet for some cash and laid it on the table.
“Manuel, we have to leave, sorry.” I stared into his eyes. He just looked surprised.
“Are you sick? Did you have an accident?” My wife whispered those questions to me as we made our way to the door. Out at the car, after we buckled up two startled and disappointed, crying kids, I let her in on the details. We talked things over for about an hour or so afterward, until it came down to either washing our hands of the situation or saying something. In the end, we decided to phone the restaurant and speak with a manager about Manuel. It took us some months to return to the restaurant. Manuel was still working there once we did, but for whatever reason, we never wound up being waited on by him again. In hindsight, I think maybe I should have reached out to him and squashed any hard feelings over what happened. And a handshake offer on my part could have made for just the right gesture, all things considered.
Granted, there’s much to be said for minding one’s own business. On the other hand, that’s often used as a piss-poor excuse for merely looking the other way when maybe we shouldn’t.
The fact of the matter is: According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, proper hand washing is the single most effective prevention method for fighting the spread of foodborne illness in both professional and residential kitchens. Hand sanitizers are no substitute, and immune-compromised populations (seniors, the sick, those recovering from health problems, medical procedures, or taking some medications, etc.) can be at a higher risk from ingested bacterial loads lighter than what many in full health can consume to little or no ill effect.
Manuel’s story might ring with a little humor now, but only from the safe distance of time and no serious consequences. Seriously, folks: nothing’s more necessary to responsible food handling than keeping one’s hands clean.
