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    Russell Viers is a Transition Expert in the publishing world. Since 1997 he has helped newspapers and magazines adapt to changes in the industry. Read more...

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  • Bad Waitress Story II

    November 14th, 2008 by Russell Viers

    Last night in Moscow I on my way to a customer visit with large Russian daily newspaper with my Adobe friend Roman Menyakin…and we were hungry.
    Because of traffic, we wanted to get to the customer’s office so we knew we could make it on time.
    We arrived an hour early, enough time to grab something at the only restaurant around, Jack Rabbit Slim’s.
    Decent place…Elvis playing in the background. They made us check our coats at the door as it’s a rule: “No Overcoats Allowed.” I don’t profess to understand the reason a person wouldn’t be allowed to take their coat in, it certainly wasn’t because it would cheapen the atmosphere here at Slim’s.
    So we check our coats and grab a table upstairs.
    I could have ordered Mexican food, but I’ve always had a little unwritten rule in my life not to eat Mexican food prepared by Russians. There’s no logic to this and it’s certainly nothing against Russians, or their ability to make enchiladas…it’s just a little rule I have followed and it hasn’t failed me, yet.
    I’m not a big steak guy, but we ordered steaks. I told Roman I would like mine medium-rare. So he starts to explain this to the waitress.
    They don’t have that, he tells me. They only have three levels: rare, medium, well-done. Roman tries to explain, and even demonstrate, that we would like our steaks between medium and well-done.
    Nope. Can’t do that. Pick one of the three.
    “Whatever,” I said.
    We had also ordered a nice cream of mushroom soup. When it arrived, we were each given a small bowl with a few croutons in it. Roman wanted more and asked about it.
    “No,” she said. “I can’t give you more.” (all in Russian, of course)
    “I will pay for them,” Roman told her.
    “I would not know how to do that for you…you can’t have any more,” she replied.
    So I threw my croutons in his bowl and I used the bread on the table, instead.
    I certainly don’t want to get into a pissing match with a Russian waitress at Jack Rabbit Slim’s in Moscow…another little unwritten rule I live by…and it’s served me well so far.

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