I live in the snottiest neighborhood in the world. Parisians on the Left Bank have nicer manners, and we know how rude the French can be.
Park, Madison and Fifth Avenue from 60th Street to 95th are crammed with the entitled. People that, somewhere along the line decided, they were the better breed of New Yorkers simply because they have money.
Why is it, grace rarely accompanies the very rich?
Just now I watched a woman while her tweedy husband egged her on (pun intended), humiliate a waiter because her eggs were a tad runny. Now, if my oeuefs needed tightening (or anything else for that matter) I’d politely send them back.
You would have thought they were her own eggs, though from the looks of her face, make-up settling in its cracks, her over lights expired long ago.
I know this waiter. He’s sweet, and often when he sees me in Starbucks early in the morning buys my coffee. But that’s not why I like him. He’s a young Latino fellow who began years ago as a cleaner in the restaurant below where I live. He was then made a busboy after a decade of sweeping and mopping till he worked his way up to server. And believe me, it wasn’t easy working for the troll who owns the place. In other words, he earned it. All of 30, to see him dressed down like that pained me, and no, I did not step in. Knowing him as I do, it would have humiliated him more if Sue, what he calls me, got involved. He apologized and brought her a fresh order without even receiving a thank you.
Boy, did I want to smack her and her arrogant husband whose stomach splayed through his Brooks Brothers button-down.
It’s only one example of what it’s like living on the Upper East Side.
When I told Tony the grocer who too loves the waiter, he said. “Did you recanize the bitch? Maybe she’s a customa, cause I’ll fix her wagon.”
“What ever do you mean Tony?”
He winked at me slyly as he, with little mercy, hacked up a Cornish hen.
Hmm, hope I see her again, to get a better look.