POLYGRAPH SECRETS

When you run a lotta polygraph (lie detector) exams you hear way more secrets from folks than you want to. And from the honest people, criminals being intent on holding back everything to try and beat you. We call it "puking up your guts," telling any guilty secret you have so it won't influence the outcome of the test. Yep, after a while you start to feel like a priest.

Who they've been sleeping with on the side. What they'd shoplifted from the dime store when they were twelve. Stuff you don't want to know. Then there's the stuff makes you think.

I was doing a head waiter from an up-scale Naples restaurant. Although it had nothing to do with the crime we were investigating, he started relieving his conscience about things he'd done in a restaurant that he wasn't proud of. "When someone would whine about their food not being just like they wanted it, we'd take it back to the kitchen and spit on it. . .or worse."

"Okay," I said, trying to move on, "about the theft. . ."

"Course, it wasn't just me did it. Most of 'em did."

"Well, that must've been before you made it to the class joints, when you were startin' out in the greasy spoons," I offered.

"Hell, no," he said, "the fancier the restaurant the worse they were. Chefs get the big head. Don't want anyone telling them how to cook the food and God help anyone who complains. I've seen 'em--"

I cut him off, not daring to hear anymore since I often ate in restaurants. Fortunately, I'd never sent anything back to the kitchen, having a garbage can gut. And feeling sorry for hardworking waiters who don't cook the stuff but still catch the heat from A-Hole customers.

Always remembered what the fella said. And laugh to myself, in restaurants, when some pompous ass berates a poor waitress because his food doesn't match his delicate sensibilities. Take it back! Makes me hope the Chef gives it a good stir with his Johnson.

I know of one restaurant owner in the sixties--had a very popular place near 4-Corners--who'd start the day cooking a big pot of soup, and spit in it, muttering, "Damn slobs don't know what's good." Never ate there and was glad when he moved on to a much hotter kitchen.

Then there was the cook we had on a Marine base. About 300 lbs--we called him Buddha--cooked with his shirt off, over a grill, sweat dripping down on the food. If he caught you checking him out, he'd grab a ball of hamburger, put it under his greasy armpit, flatten it into a paddy, and toss it on the grill.

So remember, if that steak wasn't just the way you like it and you sent it back. . .Bon appetit!