There’s this place called Iris, about a mile away from my house. I’d been there before with Jesse and Bethany, and now I go there a lot, because I like the food, and because it’s close, and because I am precisely the sort of person who gets in a total rut is loyal.
Last night I told our waiter that he’d spoiled me on my birthday, and I would now expect all my deserts with a candle and singing. He insisted he shouldn’t sing, but was there a song I’d like to hear played? Something romantic, I said. Sentimental.
So when he returned with my candlelit pudding, BoysIIMen was singing over the speakers. Now that’s service.