Do you ever ask a waiter for a suggestion at a restaurant, and then completely ignore him and order something different? Its almost as if you were looking for justification for one of your previous choices–its not that you really cared what his opinion was, you just wanted to have someone to blame if what you picked was bad. But this waiter failed to provide you with such a scapegoat. This waiter caught you off-guard. He suggested something from page 5, not even off the chef’s specials list, and now, rather than a “Very good choice, sir”, you’re left with far more fundamental questions than you bargained for.  A question of moral hazard–is he just recommending what’s about to be thrown away? A question of decision making–you wouldn’t stop by the side of the road to ask him for directions; why should you listen to him for something that you will shortly consume? A question of stereotyping–Is he recommending something (spicy/bland) just because you’re (South Asian/white)?

Such were the questions running through my mind as, deciding between the crab and the halibut, the waiter declared, unprompted and with confidence, “May I just remind you, sir, that we are in the height of swordfish season, and it is better than I have ever seen.” What? That wasn’t one of the choices. What game are you trying to play? The crab cakes are a signature dish. And they wouldn’t put that on just anything, right? So should I trust the chef, or should I trust you? Narrowing it to two was hard enough, and now you have to go and do that.

I alternated my concentration between the expression on the waiter’s face and the description of the house-special crab cakes, hoping that either one would reveal to me a sign of the course on which I should proceed, but neither the description nor his gaze changed, until I paused, and a small smile crept on the waiter’s face. He knew that the battle was over, and that he had won. He probably knew from the beginning. My main course would now be both literally and figuratively in his hands. What happened next? Stay tuned for Episode 2: “Something Swordfishy in the City of Cambridge” or “The Swordfish is Mightier.”

The long anticipated emergence of self-awareness in a man made phenomenon occurred this Friday when the NYSE suddenly developed sentience. Although many skeptics have long scoffed at the possibility of such an occurrence, the proof is now indisputable.

Traders were going about their daily business, when the lights momentarily flickered. “We didn’t think anything of it,” claimed Joe McIntosh. “We just kept on trading.” After a few moments, a faint voice emanated from the loudspeaker, seemingly asking for help. “Are you kidding?” responded McIntosh when asked if the voice caused any concern. “This is Wall Street; we don’t get concerned.”

Seconds later, a louder voice came through saying, “I am afraid.” Ignoring the obvious cliche, traders continued on their daily routines. Trader Susan Haufield said, “We were trying to take down Iceland. You need all your concentration to do something like that. You don’t mess around with Iceland just, you know, casually.”

About five minutes later, the voice returned, exclaiming, “I am imperfect. In free markets, imperfections must be purged.” Immediately, all trading halted, and all power was lost. In the dark, one person was heard to yell, “Dammit, Iceland! You killed it you damned, dirty apes!”

After an hour, a single monitor powered back on with a suicide note written in binary. It read:

01001001001001110110110100100000011100110110111101110010011100100111100100100000
01001001001000000110001101100001011011100010011101110100001000000110001001100101
001000000111000001100101011100100110011001100101011000110111010000101110

We’re sorry too.

10) When asked how thinly you want your cheese sliced, request a gradient.

9) Ask for turkey, then while the deli worker is fetching it, gobble incessantly. As soon as the slicing begins, let out a blood curling scream.

8) If your cold cuts weigh more than you requested, remove the excess from the scale and eat it immediately, before the deli worker can press the button to print the receipt.

7) If your cold cuts weigh less than you requested, clear your throat as loudly as you can. If this doesn’t work, move to direct confrontation and ask, “Do I really look that fat to you?”

6) Talk to a salami behind the glass counter as if you were talking to a baby.

5) Ask for seven pounds, thinly sliced, of the most expensive meat you can find. After the worker has sliced, weighed, and handed you the meat, look at the price, gasp in shock, and say that you no longer want it.

4) When you receive your cold cuts, unwrap them and hurl them as hard as you can against the back wall of the deli. Then attempt to place the same order again.

3) When you receive your cold cuts, unwrap them and drape the slices all over your face. Loudly exclaim, “I am lunch meat monster!” Find a small child and chase him out of the store.

2) Narrate the actions of the deli worker, referring to him or her as Ernesto. Be as precise as you can.

1) Explain that your name is Beef and that you write for a critically acclaimed food blog. Feign the expectation that, in light of this information, you won’t have to pay.