To serve, or not to serve

I've had a really trying week this week, and as we know trying times never cut us any slack. Especially when it comes to prejudice. Today I have short story on the concept of service.
I know that Bloom has an image in the media of being just short of a jesuit school on etiquette, where you might get rapped over the knuckles for not eating meat or for eating with the wrong fork. The thing about this is that this image is peddled mostly by people who have never set foot in Bloom. If they had, they'd know that we never take offence at any dietary preferences or requirements, and that we'd be happy to have our customers eat with chopsticks if that's what floats their boat. We obviously can't oblige every whim, like serving Coke (Chef would kill me) or serving champagne at 3.30 a.m. (Malmö stad would kill me). But we really do go out of our way to make your night at Bloom an extraordinary experience.
Therefore, my recent experiences in two acclaimed restaurants has left me slightly baffled. When a customer orders something from me at Bloom, I am their living menu. Do you have any idea the difficulty of selling anything without a printed card? The product information along with the price has to be delivered very delicately and without prejudice, making sure the customer understands what is on offer without embarrassment over price or choice.
So, after a very trying day, my very patient and loving husband decided I needed a break, and took me out to a local, well-known establishment. I decided to order a glass of champagne (because who can fail to get some cheer from that?). The drinks menu had two types of bubbly white on glass: the house champagne (the more expensive option) and cava. When I asked the bartender (who happened to be female) for a glass of champagne, she says "we actually have cava too, and it's cheaper". Don't get me wrong, I get this kind of attitude all the time - it's still unbelievable to most in the business that young women, to paraphrase the lingo of my generation, "know shit about fuck". I'm used to it. I don't take it personally anymore. There was a time when I did, and systembolaget staff as a consequence tended to face long interrogations on the effects of the Bourgogne weather in the summer of 2007, but that's another story. Anyway, in the restaurant I re-stated that my order was one glass of the house champagne, and received a two-minute lecture on the similarities of the champagne to the cava. Now, I don't know about you, but to me it's not all in the bubbles. I couldn't help but feel like a part of the cast of "Finding Nemo" (MY BUBBLES!!). Just before my brain imploded I switched to français to avoid carnage. "Donne-moi le champagne. Merde!" Luckily, she got the gist.
I had a similar unfortunate experience involving a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet. I don't feel like I need to recount another story - unlike these restaurants I have faith in that if you've got this far, you must be able to read. I'm also sure that my fellow colleagues can read and I might regret posting this, as my new nickname will be "Dorie" for the next few weeks. But that, along with my damn luck of being born a woman, will be my cross to bear.

(image from google.com)