You’re in a restaurant eating your meal. Minding your own business. Just eating your meal, quiet like. You’ve just started the corn on the cob when it comes.
“Everything OK?” The man asking is in his mid-forties with significant hair loss. You don’t recognize him. He wears a nice outfit but he asks a little too quickly and there is sweat in the armpits.
“Um yeah. It’s all good.” Who is this mysterious man? Who seems genuinely interested in your meal — but who would be? Who breaks in on a dinner to ask strangers how the food is. It must be an act. Who’s he with? Let him know if there are any problems? What does that mean, is it a threat? What’s his game anyhow?
That’s how I feel about the restaurant floor manager. Don’t ask me dumb questions in the middle of my meal. If you insist on knowing about my meal, ask me when it’s over. I’m eating. I’ve already been asked by the waiter. That’s his job. You have people to do that for you, don’t lower yourself to their level.
And wear some ID. How do I know who you are? Maybe you’re not with the restaurant. Maybe you’re just some weirdo that gets his jollies by putting on some nice slacks, wandering into a Chilis and go from table to table asking people about their meal. Hm. That sounds pretty fun actually. Feels like a improv comedy sketch waiting to happen.