The restaurant was perfect. The service was flawless. And then, with one innocent question, everything turned disturbingly strange. A dropped spoon, a fresh replacement from a breast pocket, a clever “statistical” explanation. But that wasn’t the secret. Not even close. When he finally asked about the string hanging from every waiter’s fly, the truth left him si… …
He had admired the place from the moment they sat down: the soft lighting, the quiet hum of conversation, the near-military precision of the staff. When he dropped his spoon and the waiter instantly produced a spotless replacement from his pocket, it felt like a small miracle of efficiency. The explanation seemed oddly logical: spoons are dropped most often, so they carry spares. Elegant, practical, almost impressive.
But curiosity has sharp edges. That dangling string from every waiter’s fly refused to leave his mind. When he finally asked, the answer arrived in a low, conspiratorial voice: the string was tied to their “tool,” so they could relieve themselves without touching anything, saving time by not washing their hands. He stared, appalled, before whispering the only question left: “How do you put it back?” The waiter’s smile never faltered. “Personally,” he said softly, “I use the spoon.”