Waiter From Hell
Remember when eating out was a relaxing experience? Someone else cooked for you, served you and cleaned up after you. All you had to do was chew, swallow and pay. No longer, though. Today you feel like a laboratory rat who has to struggle through a maze every time it wants a chunk of cheese. “Good evening.” The waiter said. “ Table for four?” Then a young man better dressed and better looking than any of us presented himself at our table. “Good evening, my name is Paul, and I’ll be your waiter this evening. Would you like a few minutes before I take your order?” “Soup or salad?” “Whatever you say, sir. Dressing?” “Creamy Italian is our house specialty. Would that be all right, sir?” “And your baked potato…” “No, chives?” “Would you prefer the six-, eight- or 12-ounce steak, sir?” “Which brings up the vegetables, sir. Would you like steamed broccoli, creamed corn, sauteed zucchini, diced carrots--” “Fine with me, sir. Would you prefer the parking lot, the side alley or the street in front of the restaurant?” He ducked, then countered with a left hook right under my eye. It was the first time all night he hadn’t offered me a selection. I collapsed semiconscious into my chair, as someone in authority rushed over and berated Pauly. When I regained my senses, I saw the very concerned waiter right in front of my nose. He apologized and offered to buy me a drink, call the parmesan—whatever I wanted. “No, no,” I said. “I’ll be all right. Just bring me a glass of water.” |