Every once in a while when eating out, you run into a waiter who has his ideas about how customers should behave, and with these guys, I'm always a constant disappointment.

I believe a waiter should be part of a fine restaurant's background, like the black velvet paintings and sombreros on the wall. He should not be a dining-out coach seeking to prove to diners that he is a "professional." But too often I get a guy seeking to convince me he has certain duties laid out by the International Association of Busybody Waiters and that nothing will interfere with his exercise of these duties. (I confine my remarks to waiters and not waitresses because it's the dudes who seem to need to assert themselves. If you don't cooperate and let them stage your dining experience, they become petulant and let you know that you are really beneath eating in such a fine establishment.)

I ran across one of these bozos recently in a well-known Honolulu restaurant. My wife ordered a glass of wine and I, being the designated grumpy chauffeur, said I'd just have water. The waiter looked crestfallen. Literally. The Official Sommelier Crest attached to his chest fell on the floor. He returned with the wine and water and put the water goblet just out of arm's reach. After he left, I moved it to a more functional position on the table. When he returned, he moved it back to where it had been. I knew I was in for trouble. When he returned, again, he positioned an empty bowl with a piece of lemon in it near my wife's placemat and, as if directing a child, said, "THAT is for your clam shells." He strode away and my wife said, "What did he think I was going to do — put them in my purse?"

From there the meal took on a surreal aspect with our guy placing plates and bowls of this and that at specific spots on the table, me moving them to where I could reach them and him moving them back. It was like culinary checkers. He moved my water to the outside; I moved the pepper by the bread basket. He moved the salt; I moved the butter dish. He moved the bread basket, and I jumped it with the flower vase and said, "King me!"

A young lady, apparently his aide-de-camp, dropped by, and we asked for a box to carry away our leftovers. She left and our man shows up a minute later looking ready for a fight. "We like to box the leftovers in the kitchen ourselves," he announced.

"Well, I like to pack my own leftover grub, bub. So hop into the kitchen and get me the box, buster, you savvy? Chop, Chop ... Get along now ... ya hear?"

That put him in his place, all right. When he reappeared to leave us the check, his behavior was that of a servile toady. But when I produced a gift certificate that would cover most of the meal's cost, his eyes lit up as if to say, "Ah ha! I knew you were rubes! You can't even afford to eat here!" To emphasize his point, he confiscated the bread basket and moved my water again out of reach.

But I wasn't done. The gift certificate covered all but about $11 of the bill. As my man stood by, I slowly calculated the tip, scrawling with a pen on a linen napkin, like Jethro Bodine doing math ciphers and talking out loud. "Eleven double naught times point twenty double naught carry over the four, minus dang I wish Uncle Jed was here."

I handed him the charge slip.

"A dollar and thirty cent tip!" he cried. "On a $95 bill?"

"Well, pard," I said, furtively sticking some silverware in my pocket. "It's the thought that counts."

He seemed to take it pretty well. As we left, he composed himself by lying on the floor weeping, pounding the rug with his little balled up fists.

Read Charles Memminger's blog at http://charleyworld.honadvblogs.com.