|Photo credit: Wikipedia|
Tom and I confidently stride into the Malaysian joint on West 8th Street in the Village. We know it's good, because in there, we're a definite minority.
I pick up the menu and one of my fresh new chopsticks goes flying off the table. The waiter is attentive. He immediately swoops over with a new set.
We order a mango salad. We eat the mango salad with our chopsticks.
We order some dinner. The waiter bustles over with two forks. I look around. No one else in the entire place has been given a fork.
Tom and I evaluate the possibilities:
- We were profiled, totally a priori. We look like people who can't work a chopstick.
- I did, in fact, perpetrate a chopstick mishap when I knocked the one chopstick off the table. It was deduced therefore that we cannot be trusted.
- When we ate the mango salad, our chopstick skills were observed and judged horrific. It would simply be too painful to let us continue.
Or maybe the waiter is a considerate guy and just wanted us to have a native utensil option.