The new restaurant selection process

It had been a long, hard day at the branch office in the small town across the state line.  Jim saw the sign that said "restaurant" in front of what could have easily been a high priced architect's office.  He eased into the sparsely populated lot and entered through the heavily-shaded glass door.  In what he took to be the wait station was a man in a tuxedo.  Jim looked over his sport coat and slacks, and wondered if he was going to be "dress-coded."  Oh, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. 

The man barely looked up, and motioned with his eyes to a side area with sofas and a coffee table.

With one eyebrow lifted in bemusement, Jim went over and sat down.  Shortly, a door between one sofa and the big window with overly-heavy curtains opened, and a hand waved Jim in.  This next room was a plain, small office with an office desk, a couple of clipboards and a cup full of pens on it, and just enough room for two chairs- one apparently for him, the other with another high-dressed man waiting.  "Do sit down," he said.

"I think I made a mistake," Jim told him.  "I thought this was a restaurant."

"Good heavens, no," the man answered.  "This is where we determine your suitability for any of the actual restaurants in town.  Once I have looked over your survey-"

"Survey?"

"-THEN I will give you the address of any restaurant you qualify for."

Jim shook his head, wondering how he had slipped through that proverbial crack into the Twilight Zone.  Trying to make the whole thing make sense, he ventured, "Sir, I'm looking for a meal, not a job."

"Indeed," the man said without any emotion- except maybe the emotion you would see on the face of some anal-retentive looking at a small stain on another man's tie.  "The various owners of restaurants in this state have banded together, in order to prevent having the horrid experience of serving those they might be offended by in some manner.  They hire our firm to sort you lot out and make sure that you end up at a place appropriate to your lifestyles and opinions.  Now, please, fill out this questionnaire, there's a good man."

Jim took the proffered clipboard, absently reaching for a pen.  "Political affiliation?  Why would you need to know if I'm Republican, or Democrat, or..."

"No, no," the man scolded.  "This is asking for what Party you use when you insult others on social media.  Do you call them 'Nazis', 'Communists', 'Conserva-"

"I don't use terms like that for others," Jim answered.  "I have a little more respect for people- and knowledge of history- than to do tha-"

The man took the board from Jim.  "Here, allow me.  'Submissive.' "

"Hey!" Jim said, quietly straining to keep his cool.  "What makes y-"

"Gender assignation?"  the man asked.

"Male,"  Jim snapped.  "Want to check?"

The man lifted one eye from the clipboard, briefly.  "Not at this time," He said flatly.  "Favorite cartoon?"

"Cartoon?"

The man sighed.  "I really don't have time to go over with you the several well-regarded studies on the predictive value of cartoons in personality..."

"Fine, Scooby Doo.  What does that say about me?"

"That you have a 70% likelihood of being underemployed,  a better than half chance of questionable hygiene habits and/or table manners, and a proclivity to be dominated or intimidated by more intelligent females or allied genders..."

Jim blinked.  " 'Allied genders?' "

"Do you or anyone in your family, at least back four generations, or any of your inner circle of friends, co-workers, or acquaintances, either own, has owned, has fired, has held, or posted about firearms, given to the NRA, the Police Benevolent Fund, or the DAR, been a veteran, are serving in any armed force including ROTC and Scouting Eagle-level or above, or have an American flag or its likeness?"

"Good Lord," Jim explained.

"We'll get to Him in a second. "

"Under all those conditions, I'd have to think yes," Jim mumbled as his stomach growled and he searched his pockets for a stick of Doublemint.

"Hmm," the man grunted.  "Do you have, and are you bringing with you, any children?"

"Do you see any?"

The man pulled out his phone, hit a few buttons, swiped twice, and a miniature bank of security cameras flashed to life.  "Hmm, no I don't", he said, and made a check mark on the clipboard.

"Would you like to strip search me now?"  Jim said sarcastically.  The man didn't blink.  "Well, we don't actually do an invasive search," he explained.  "However, you will have to leave any t-shirts with messages, gender-appropriate jewelry, lapel pins with designs, neckwear that might be construed as religious, and ties above a certain color and design level in your vehicle when you reach the restaurant.  Also, any headwear  unless it represents body parts that you do not possess or functions you cannot perform."

"Can I keep my fricking belt on?"  Jim exclaimed, one half of his brain seeking to keep his decorum, the other looking for an object in the room stout enough to render the man insensate in one blow.

"As long as you do not fasten it in such a manner that it obviously keeps your clothing at waist level,"  was the reply.  "Some restaurants will require, shall we say, 'proof of underwear'".

"Judas Priest!" Jim shouted.

"Oh, yes, the religious thing," the man said.  "What is your position on the expansion of Palestinian territory and the trying of Israeli citizens as war criminals?"


Jim went dead calm.  "Would you really like to know?" he said quietly.

The man watched as Jim wrang his hands.  "Perhaps not."

"Let me ask you a question now," Jim said, reining himself in as best he could.  "The people of this state, the restaurant owners in this state, actually agreed to all this?"

"The ones that mattered," the man replied.  "Of course there were SOME objections- but those people generally eat at home or out of state anyway."

"Uh-huh," Jim replied absently.  "And if you took the information that I've given you, what restaurant would you be sending me too?"

"Ah, yes," the man said as he slid out of a drawer of files a single white sheet with a few lines on it.  "We have Jerry's Burger Barn... but that's across the state line.  There is Moe's Coneys... again, across the state line.  Oh, and here is Chik-Fil-A..but that is..."

"...Across the state line..." they echoed each other.  Jim smiled.  "So then you must not do much of a restaurant business here, do you?"

The man curled the corner of his mouth.  "Well, the majority of restaurant owners are quite satisfied with the arrangement,"  he said.  "After the raising of the minimum wage to $15 an hour with no tipping, they rather like to have... well, less staff."

Jim stood up.  "You know, part of me is saying, 'gimme the address to Jerry's Burger Barn'... the other part is saying, 'If I aim high enough when I pee on your desk, I might not splatter my slacks...' "

The man calmly hit a button on his desk.  A plexiglass window slid between Jim and the desk. 

"You were saying?" the man added, smiling back.