In the first place, “Enjoy!” is not a complete sentence. It is lazy speak for ‘I hope that you enjoy your meal.’ Oh, and please don’t call me ‘Hon’. I’m not your
‘hon’. I am somebody else’s hon. You, miss/mrs/mr waitperson, may call me ‘Ma’am’. Or ‘Your Majesty’ if you are more comfortable with that.
Here in my Mexican city, they say, “Aqui tiene.” (Here you have [it]). Sigh. And they call you ‘hija’ or ‘hijo’ [daughter or son]. I have been called ‘hija’ by people less than half my age. The proper address here in Sunny Mexico is ‘Señora’ or ‘Señor, which if they are trying to practice their English they will translate to Mrs. or Mr. And it sounds very strange, because of course, Mr. or Mrs. is not a stand alone title, as it is in Mexico. I have a neighbor, a genial young man, who generally addresses me as “Mrs. Señora.”
So the correct thing for a Mexican waitperson to say when presenting your food, is “Buen provecho, Señora.” Which is the Spanish equivalent of ‘Enjoy your meal, ma’am.’
I wonder why the service industry in the USA has gotten so casual. Even in rather nice, upper level restaurants, you are liable to encounter the perky ‘Enjoy!’, as if every waitperson were a campy gay person in wait garb.
And while I am whining, I might as well whine about the cheery immediate faux friendship with one’s waitperson. “Hi,” they’ll chirp. “My name is Dashiell Salmon and I’ll be your waiter/waitress for the evening.” OK. Fine. Now that we’re BFF, can I order?
Whereupon comes the long recited list of specials. I have to confess, I have the memory of a gnat, so when they get to oh, say, the third item, I have forgotten the first two. So I usually ask if they have it written for my perusal. Usually, no, like it makes it more unique a menu offering if it is off menu, only in their bouncy cheery heads.
What a sucky way to have to make a living. Being all spunky and upbeat all the time even when you feel like the bottom of a bird cage. I know. I’ve done that. I did it back when I was perky and upbeat and 18 years old and it seemed like a great way to make a buck. I can remember working with other women in their forties and fifties and praying that that would not ever be me, that I would have worked out a way to live life so that in my middle years I didn’t have to deal with ‘the public’. I find people are really really nice for the most part. However, the public are beasts. Vile and cruel. And not just because I forgot the drawn butter with the lobster. Just that anonymous people have forgotten their souls. We all need to remember our souls when we intermingle with the madding crowd. Because if each of us remembers our own soul, we can then be reminded that everyone else out there owns a soul, too, and it should never be stomped on by our or anyone else’s size 8 galoshes.
So, anyway, don’t call me ‘hon’ and don’t tell me to ‘Enjoy!’ Because that will ensure that I won’t.
Have a nice day.