1 : revealing or marked by a smug, ingratiating, or false earnestness <a tone of smarmy self-satisfaction — New Yorker>
2 : of low sleazy taste or quality
My new guilty pleasure is the smarmy waiter my husband Mike and I discovered at one of our local eateries. We discovered him the way all great talents are discovered. This guy is FANTASTICALLY smarmy. I swear he leaves an slime trail around our table. He is awesome.
You would think we would try and avoid the smarmy waiter, but surprisingly, we seek him out. If he isn’t working when we visit we are actually depressed about it. It’s like a car wreck you have to watch. A scab you have to pick.
The first time we met Smarmy I ordered a martini with my lunch (I’ll pause a moment to let the chorus of shocked gasps die down.). Smarmy immediately let me know — using of an arsenal of nods, winks and leers — that he thought my choice was pretty cheeky, but that he was the swinging kind of guy who thought scandalous behavior like that was groovy. Instantly, he had my husband and I pegged as wild partiers in his mind, so he began the onslaught of slightly off color jokes and alcohol-related stories he imagined would delight us. He did everything but bring out a collection bag for the key party.
Once, when I ordered something, he literally answered with “You got it, babe.”
BABE! HA! Smarmalicious!
The next time we visited the restaurant we were in for a real treat. A black family sitting at the table next to ours was blessed with Smarmy as their waiter. Every time he talked to them, it was as if he was magically transformed into the host of Showtime at the Apollo. He peppered them with street lingo and regaled them with stories of Eddie Murphy routines they might have missed.
The family was there celebrating the birthday of their 76 year old mother. Smarmy was pouring on the charm, trying to talk this lovely old woman into ordering dessert. When finally she relented, more than likely just to shut him up, Smarmy finished off his sales pitch with “You go girl! That’s what I’m talking about!”
Then everyone turned to look at us because our jaws made such a clatter as they hit our tables.
I can only imagine it was the presence of the 76 year old mother that kept the 40ish year old son from standing up and flatting Smarmy. Or maybe they were simply in awe of Smarmy’s otherworldly abilities to stereotype.
We’ll be going back to Smarmytown soon. I can only hope we are seated next to an Asian family.
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