By Mike Redmond
I recently played host to a large group of people (that’s “large” as in “herd”) who came to town to partake of my legendary open door policy. In other words, they needed a place to crash and I had room.
The visit served to remind me that I have no future in the hospitality industry.
I simply am not cut out for turning my abode over to strange people. And yes, I mean strange. I should know. I’m related to them.
I’m talking days on end of people wandering around the house all hours of the day and night in various states of dress, alarming the dog, terrifying the cat, playing havoc with the schedule, monopolizing the bathroom, rummaging around the kitchen, and commandeering my television set.
You know what? I think people don’t really know how to be guests anymore.
Let’s take breakfast. Getting a herd of people breakfasted and out the door is incredibly difficult when they seem to have forgotten that you live in a house, not a diner.
Example: One morning I thought it would be nice to make pancakes. I make a pretty good pancake, if I do say so myself. They also seemed the most efficient way to get everyone well-fed and ready for the day.
No such luck. You see, Ellie doesn’t like pancakes. Joanie doesn’t like pancakes unless they have blueberries in them. Frank prefers waffles. Richard never has anything but oatmeal in the morning. Dave (who is always on the lookout for new diseases so he can disprove that quack doctor who keeps saying he’s healthy) believes himself to be allergic to wheat, although he hasn’t been, and doesn’t plan to be, tested. And Marilyn just wants some juice.
Oh well. They can have coffee while I figure this out. Except that Ellie takes half-caf. Joanie’s a decaf person. Frank likes full-strength but only from Colombia. Richard likes a balance of half half-caf, half full strength. Dave thinks he’s lactose intolerant so he wants soy milk in his. Marilyn drinks tea.
Anyone for bacon? Well, at least they all agree on that one. No. But would I have any of that good sausage I had last time?
Weird. I can remember when herds of us would descend on Grandma and Grandpa McKenzie’s house. Breakfast would find a dozen or so people around the table, eating exactly the same thing: Bacon, eggs fried in the bacon grease, and toast. Orange juice for everyone. Coffee for grownups, milk for kids. And not a soul complained.
For one thing, it was good food. For another, you just didn’t DO that sort of thing. You were a guest. You minded your manners and tried not to make demands of your grandparents, lest your mother reach over and smack you one.
I’m glad people feel comfortable in my home, I really am, but come on. You want pancakes with blueberries? Make them at your house. Around here, the pancakes are plain and if you don’t like it, you can go to LePeep. Which is actually what everybody ended up doing, at my suggestion.
Hey, I guess that makes me a concierge. Maybe I have a future in hospitality after all. I’m going to have to rework that open-door policy, though. How’s this:
I have an open door. You’re free to leave at any time. PLEASE.
© 2009 Mike Redmond. All Rights Reserved.
