Open letter to my waiter:

I've had a few problems lately with your getting my order wrong, and before I do something drastic (like withholding my patronage), I'm going to see if a letter will suffice.

The first thing I'd like to get clear is, why don't you ever write anything down? People are different, with varying tastes, and even your never-ending menu will not satisfy everyone as printed. I love the mushroom ravioli, but the chives on it seem wrong. And if I ask you to hold those chives, make sure the kitchen holds the chives. If you can't remember that, write it down.

I am not impressed by your trying — and failing — to remember my orders. Although I try to hide it on the outside, I cringe on the inside. I know you are about to screw something up. No one has ever remembered to make my pizza both extra crispy and light on the cheese. Even if they did, it would be at the detriment of my salad with dressing on the side with no pico.

And why do you have to crouch down so that your greasy chin practically touches my Dr Pepper? It's gross, and it makes me feel even less like your best friend. When you leave, I deride your frat-boy smarminess.

Always assume I want a refill unless I've told you otherwise. There's no need to ask. Offer the option of appetizers and dessert, but don't force-feed me the white cholocate raspberry cheesecake until I say "yes" or "leave or I'll call your manager."

I used to be a waitress, so I know that waitpeople have to throw in some flair. You do what you can to get a better tip. But please, God, please, let that flair be getting my fucking order right this time.

Thanks in advance,
Nicole