The Job.

I'm a waiter. Been doing it for years. I'm old enough now to feel no shame in it. I chose it, and I like it. I take pride in doing a good job. I enjoy showing people a good time. It helps pay for the food my kids eat, as well as their saving for college.

At it's most basic, you are providing people the food they live on. At it's best, you are a guide through a beautiful gallery of artworks that nourishes all their senses.

I work in a casual, corner bar in Lincoln Square, Chicago. There are white table clothes and lobster on the menu, but it's still a corner bar. I recommend the steaks and burgers.

Last night as I waited tables, a five top sat down. As I welcome them, they interrupt and order a bottle of Zinfandel. We have a pretty extensive wine list. Some thirty-five bottles. I'm happy to suggest a few things, discuss it with them, because the chances of me picking the right wine are small. On Sunday's it's marked half off on all bottles. I try to point out the discount wine list, adding that they may want to pick one out for themselves rather then have me pick it out. They interrupt again, saying that's all fine just bring the cheapest Zinfandel.

I brought our cheapest Red Zinfandel, showed them the label, opened and poured.

You guessed it. They meant White Zinfandel.

Trying to avoid a, "I told you so" tone, I explain that this can happen sometimes when letting your server choose things for you. That it was was partially my fault really, I should have asked which type of Zin they wanted.

I got lucky, one of the people at the table agreed to drink it and I brought them their White Zin.