Breeding Familiary

When the guy who works at your local take-away starts commenting on your new hair, you know you've well and truly stopped cooking.

I'm not quite sure where it began. First, it was the StarMart employees, memorising faces as we trotted up for milk or catfood on the cusp of the graveyard shift. They'd ask after our cats, we'd answer, jokes all round. Then it was the pizza delivery guy. Admittedly, our favourite place only ever sends the one bloke, but ever since he came to our door on auto-pilot with a neighbour's order, I think that excuse is bunk. And now the deli attendant, who not only commented on my haircut, but noticed the all-but-intangibly failed effort at going a different colour.

Truly, these are grim times.

Setting aside the shame of being recognised for our currently less-than-stellar dietary habits, it's a curious kind of relationship to have with people we see regularly but superficially. It's different to school, work or university, because the familiarity there is impersonal: beyond your immediate circle of friends and acquaintences, it becomes a matter of recognition without interaction or, by and large, interest. Nothing about either party is given away: you are each just passing by. But the people who serve our meals, examine our shopping trolleys and provision us with alcohol only ever appear to us in their official capacity, while we are forever off-duty. The pizza guy knows our address, our cats, and our predeliction for meat lovers' and the Mediterranean special - but we know nothing about him.

Food-wise, I have a habit of entering ruts. Once I find something I like - deli pies, sushi, sashimi, Boost smoothies, toasted chicken-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches - I have a tendency to go nuts. Provided there's a nearby outlet, I'll eat the same thing for lunch all week, every week until a new craze comes along - and in the meantime, the service folk get to know me by sight and dietary preference. Having worked in hospitality, I remember things from the other side of the cash register: amazement at regular coffee-drinkers who would come in for the same four, ill-advised short blacks every second day, conscientious consumers of wheatgrass shots who dropped by via the gym, breakfast stalwarts addicted to hotcakes with syrup. Apart from trying not to go crazy, there's precious little intellectual stimulation in the food service industry, and the consumer usually provides it. We behind the counter remember, and after a while, we'll know you don't need a menu - just a swift injection of caffiene before your bowl of nachos.

And now, I, too, have joined the ranks of the Predictable Customer. Long story short: familiarity may well breed contempt - but so, it seems, does a prolonged and exclusive affection for Hollondaise sauce.