Table for 2×2

I never met a mixed seafood plate that I didn’t like. So when Johann decided to meet me in Greece for a last-minute, end-of-summer holiday, I knew it was only a matter of time before we split one for dinner. 

The one we got in Chania was good—as mixed fish plates often are. That’s the thing about them. It’s hard to mess up grilled prawns and calamari atop a bed of hand cut fries. The only thing I could say that was special about this one was that it was particularly large, having been served on two normal-sized dinner plates instead of the customary jumbo platter. It also came with two large salads, two small bowls of tzatziki and a double order of bread. I wasn’t expecting that.

I thought that was a little odd, actually. Usually a meal billed as sharable is plattered, not portioned. So I asked the server when he brought us the salads, “Oh we get two?”

“This is from the office,” he replied.

Johann and I exchanged a look, shrugged and then dug in. What a bonus! When the double plates fish arrived, I got up and checked the sign on the sidewalk. There it was, plain as day: Mixed Fish Plate for 2 Persons. It is what it is and we ate it. All of it.

The trouble started near the end of the meal, when Johann signalled the waitress for another beer, thus setting off a chain of events that left her questioning everything on our table and our collective integrity too. 

“Excuse me,” the waitress said, as she brought the beer. “You ordered two fish offers or one?”

“One,” I replied. “For two people.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Well you have two seafood dinners here,” she said, motioning to what was now a graveyard of fish bones and mollusc husks. 

“Well we ordered one,” I repeated. “For two people.”

“You ate two,” she said.

The three of us, now joined by the server who delivered the food, all exchanged a look, unsure what to do next.

“You should have said something,” the woman said, now getting accusatory. “When we brought you two, you should have said you only ordered one.”

I didn’t like her tone. I am an honest and thoughtful person and I have never tried to scam anyone out of anything, least of all a mixed fish plate. In fact, earlier in the night, I had bought a child street performer a dinner of her choosing. And since I was footing the bill for our night out, I was also paying for Johann’s. I’m not saying that to boast, I’m just pointing out that if I were the type of woman looking for a free meal, I am doing things all wrong.  

“Didn’t you think it was odd that there were two plates?” the waitress asked.

I looked at Johann as if to warn him for the argument I was about to have.

“Didn’t you think it was odd there was two plates?” I countered. “I mean, how would I know how you serve your meals?” I shook my head as if I didn’t even want her to answer. “We are two people, why would we order two fish plates?”

The waitress sighed. “You should have said something,” she insisted. “Because this is not normal.”

I did a double take. Did I hear that correctly? Not only was this woman acting like I was trying to con my way into a free plate of calamari, but she was now also calling me fat.

“We ordered one fish plate,” I repeated. “Why would we order two of the same entrée?”

“Four, actually,” Johann piped in. “That’s four of the same entrée.”

“Exactly!” I said, turning to Johann. “Thank you. We did not order four fish dinners.”

Not sooner were those words out of my mouth that I looked down at the table and was confronted with reality. We may not have ordered four fish dinners, but we most definitely ate them. And now, perhaps even worse, we were sitting there acting like it was no big deal and asking for another round of drinks. Up until five minutes before, we were even chit-chatting about getting gelato on the walk home.

I held up my hand as if to cut the waitress off from whatever fresh insult she was about to deliver. “I may eat a lot, but I would never order four of the same entrée,” I insisted, my nose in the air. “If I was going to order that much food, I would have at least ordered four different things. Because what is the point?” I asked. “Tell me, what is the point of four mixed fish dinners?”

“I’m going to have to talk to my boss,” she said. 

And this was the real problem. I understood that from the beginning, actually. The waitress probably didn’t care that an extra fish plate walked out of the kitchen, but her manager maybe does. As a person with extensive experience dealing with unreasonable authority figures, this did not concern me in the slightest. After all, Johann and I had placed our order with the manager. If there was a miscommunication, it was on him. I would not be paying for the extra fish platter—and neither would the waitress. 

I watched the waitress walk away and turned back to Johann. “I can talk to the manager,” I said. “I don’t care.”

I should talk to him. He likes me,” Johann added. “I’m Finnish.”

At this I nearly snorted because if there was one detail this story didn’t need, it was which country issues Johann’s passport. But I understood why he said it. We were seated by an old-ish, stylish Greek man dressed entirely in white linen. This man, knowing a good head of hair when he sees one, immediately wanted to know all about Johann: where he was from; when he got to Chania; what he does for a living. I, on the other hand, was more or less an accessory with a pulse, which any woman who spends time in Greece alone will tell you is a welcome change from all the leering.

“KIITOS!” the man shouted as he ushered Johann to “the best table.” “I know a little bit of Finnish,” he said with a wink.

This impressed Johann, I don’t know why. I can shout THANK YOU in at least twelve languages and not speak a single one of them fluently as well. Johann never once got excited about it. 

“I don’t see him right now,” Johann said, craning his neck, looking for the mystery manager, this man in white who was so taken by a Finn that he committed our order to memory, amid our small talk. “I haven’t seen him for a while, actually.”

This was the latest detail of the story that wasn’t adding up. Where had the manager gone off to? Who leaves the restaurant during the middle of the dinner rush? Why, in retrospect, did the manager not have a belt holding up his pants, instead opting to roll them at the waist? I forced myself to be honest with my memory: Were the pants dirty? Yes, they were.

“Question,” I said to Johann. “Do you actually think that guy was the manager?”

“He took our order,” Johann replied.

“That wasn’t my question,” I said, looking around one last time for any sign of him. “I think, maybe, he was…a volunteer?”

“He gave us menus!” Johann insisted.

“I don’t think he worked here,” I said.

As if I needed proof, I caught a glimpse of the waitress, who was inside talking to a middle-aged man with a crew cut. He had the physique of a body builder and was wearing a t-shirt that said ADIDAS WRESTLING across the front.

“There is a small chance that we might have to pay for two fish plates,” I said to Johann, gauging the size of the man’s biceps to be about the same girth as my thighs. On principal I knew I was right. But if push came to shove—literally—I would back down. I might try to talk my way into a free dessert first, but I would pay for the meals.

The waitress did not return to the table immediately, which I took as a good sign. In fact, she actively avoided us for the next twenty minutes. This, I’ve come to realize, is how you know you’ve won. People only ignore you when they’re losing. If they still thought they had an edge, they’d still be all up in your face, spouting facts and opinions, and pointing to things in writing. Defeat, on the other hand, is silent. Losers are quiet because they’re hoping that if they ignore you long enough that you’ll get bored and go away—or, even better, pay before you do. Don’t make that mistake. If no one is answering you, YOU ARE WINNING. Keep sending the emails, or leaving the voicemails or whatever it is you’re doing that no one is acknowledging. You are nearly there.

This standoff went on for at least a half hour – with me gesticulating wildly anytime the waitress was looking in our general direction and her abruptly turning around whenever I did. Finally, after several failed attempts, I caught her eye.

“I apologize in advance for anything I am about to say,” I said to Johann. “But I am going to channel my inner white man and get this done.”

“Why a white man?” Johann asked.

“They’re the most entitled people on earth,” I explained. “No offense.”

Johann, by the way, is not entitled. Nor is he inappropriately assertive or even remotely rude. So, yeah, don’t “not all men!!!” me, because I know. Not all men, indeed. I live with one.

“I’d say white lady because white ladies are equally entitled,” I clarified. “But they’re also often wrong. And I am not wrong in this case.”

He nodded.

“Ask yourself,” I said. “What would Harold do in this situation?” Harold is the name of my co-worker who consistently spends the first ten minutes of our team calls complaining but some minor infraction—slow pizza delivery, a long line at the pharmacy, a tracking number that did not align with an Amazon order—that prompts some kind of outsized reaction, usually in the form of a email to customer service and a demand for a refund. Harold is a pain in the ass, but he is also not wrong. If the pizza is guaranteed to be delivered by 8, then he should get a free pizza if it shows up at 8:30.

“Harold would not pay for the fish platter,” I said. 

Johann nodded.

I started ticking off the names of Johann’s friends and mine who would also not be duped into paying for a meal they didn’t order. “Joe would not pay for two. Greg would not. Steve would not. We will not.”

The waitress appeared at our table. “I’ll have the bill, please,” I said.

She sighed. “For one platter or two?”

I nearly laughed in her face. “One,” I said. “We ordered one. We will pay for one.”

She pursed her lips into a tight smile and handed me the check.

Lest you think that I am a total asshole, I tipped her for two.

6 comments to “Table for 2×2”
  1. Nova, this is, in fact, advice I’m going to use TODAY! Specifically the part about if people are ignoring you, that means you are winning. Keep going, you are almost there.

    It’s a boring office thing in which someone ordered a thing they shouldn’t have, and now is trying to dodge my emails and phone calls about it because they like to not pay for it. But you’re right. I’m going to win this one, so thanks for this specific post, on this specific day. :D

      • AND I DID WIN. I think the other lesson here is to not beat around the bush so much, as I finally just told her I was billing the job out, and to let me know if she wanted the product at a later date, haha. She replied “fantastic, thanks.” So I extra win, because she thanked me for it. :D

  2. Ooohh…a smack-down of extra generosity! Well-done, Nova. This will make a much more complicated story for her to tell – and she will – her friends.

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