Customer Service. Who cares as long as the food's good.

I have been away on a holiday in Israel, gloriously night swimming in the Mediterranean, slathering myself with mud on Dead Sea beaches, staring uncomprehendingly at the security wall inside Bethlehem's boundaries, climbing on to roofs in the Old City and drinking in unmatchable views of overlapping histories and religions, and eating shedloads of food. Bread. Loads of the stuff. I would fall out of bed and into Carmel Market and come  back with my arms full of flatbread and pita. And a market visit is a must, because it drums into you faster than any other experience, the shift in customer service culture. There is no hallo, how are you, how did you sleep, what can I do for you today. There is just a direct stare, a pinching together of the fingers to indicate to you that you should hold your horses while they serve someone else, or just the bark of "Mah?" Which, loosely interpreted, more or less means, what the hell do you want, and make it quick.  I loved this style. It unleashed my years and years of pent up commuter aggression, all those unspoken frustrations and irritations, liberated into the release of direct, social-niceties-free, give and take of doing business. I want these oranges, how much? No way, I'm not paying that. Nope. What? Five shekels? Fine. Here you go. Cheers. And I am off, triumphant, not in my purchase, but in the successful capture of direct, chit chat free, transaction. In the Old City, a friend weaves us through the Muslim Quarter, winding deeper and deeper through the back streets, till we get to a filthy and unprepossessing looking arch. We walk through it and find ourselves in a cavernous looking space with a bizarre range of birdcages perched on the concrete alcoves, with a din of birdsong and clashes of saucepans. A man wielding a towel approaches us. Can we see a menu, my friend asks. The man stares at us. No, he says. And keeps on staring at us. Our kids, by now used to the style, stare straight back at him, unfazed. He spreads out the fingers of one hand and ticks them off. Falafel, pita, salad, houmous, chips, He says. We look at each other. Yeah, we say to him. Falafel, pita, salad, houmous, chips. We'll have that then. He turns around and walks off. Back ten minutes later with the food. Quite simply THE best falafel, pita, salad, houmous and chips ever. Especially the houmous. And the falafel. And the pita. Why would you want this man to waste precious time being nice to his customers that could be spent more satisfactorily to his purse and his customers' stomachs, cooking up matchless falafel?? There is definitely a moral in there for my commute.