It’s 11 PM on a Saturday night in the nation’s capitol. The scene is an Argentinian steakhouse, and the observer has been seated next to a a foursome of very loud people. Then, this happens.
“I want the tasting menu,” says one of the lady guests; the waiter regrets to inform that the whole table must partake (so as not to mess up the kitchen). The waiter departs for a moment while the couples decide what they want to do; springing to her defense, the gallant gentlemen assure that they are more than happy to also partake of the tasting menu. The waiter returns and takes their order, telling them (as my waiter had told my wife and I) that if you see something you like on the menu, just let him know and he’ll see if the chefs can work it in.
“I’m a vegetarian,” she says, and you can see the waiter (at the Argentinian steakhouse) stiffen a bit. “So if you could make all the dishes fish or vegetables, that’d be wonderful.” Confused—punch drunk, almost, at the audacity of the thing—the waiter stumbles away to consult with the chef. He comes back moments later with a compromise: They’ll allow her to skip the chef’s tasting menu if everyone else still wants to partake. It doesn’t make any economic sense, you see, for her to do it this way. She’d be better off just ordering veggies individually.
Miffed, she dismisses the waiter again. How dare they make the vegetarian feel unwelcome at the “contemporary Argentine steakhouse”! “I just wish the chef would do his job!” is the last thing I hear the outraged woman say.
So, basically, this woman walked into a steakhouse and insisted that everyone had to change the rules and accommodate her because her vegetarianism was so morally superior that it trumped everyone else’s comfort and established customs. And she was outraged at their unwillingness to accommodate her whims; because everyone else’s job, you see, is to accommodate her ego.
Metaphor for liberalism anyone?