I am allowed to drive a car. I can bear and raise children. Hell, if I wanted to, I could even purchase a GUN and keep it in my home...

... but there isn't a restaurant in town that will allow me to handle my own peppermill.

"Here's your salad!" chirps the waitress. "Would you like fresh-ground pepper with that?"

Ummm...I'm not sure. You just set it before me. I haven't even had much of a chance to look at it, let alone taste it.

But she's standing there, expectantly, with a yard-long peppermill under her arm. I get the feeling it's a "now or never" proposition. I say yes.

She takes a step or two back, takes aim and says "Say when!"

Okay, that's enough. Enough. That's all the pepper I need. WHEN!

It's damned humiliating. I assume it's done so that people don't pocket their peppermills. But I resent the implication that I'm some sort of kitchen gadget thief. Get to know me a little, wouldja?

Last weekend when I was in New York, the waiter brought a peppermill to the table...

...and left it there!