A couple walks into a bar.
No joke. So a couple walk into a patio bar. They search out a perfect just-enough-but-not-too-much-sun-and-not-too-close-to-the-smokers-or-stereo-speakers-so-you-can-hear-yourself-think spot. They settle into a high top table and look around. No sign of a waitress, but all the other taken tables have drinks and/or food on them so that’s a good sign right? They wait.
The woman has a look of extreme hunger mixed with relief on her face. Food can’t be too far away. It’s 3 o’clock and she is starving. Her husband, who must be part coyote, always forgets about stopping for lunch. It never really occurs to him…until he senses the daggers shooting from his wife’s eyes and the venom spitting from her mouth. “Oh, your blood sugar must be low” he guesses. “You’re brilliant. Some of us can’t fast for days like you can!” she hisses. And with that he pulls into the first place that resembles an eatery.
Waitresses flit from one table to another…but not to theirs. Although the woman feels faint, she uses all of her concentration to will one of the young ladies wearing a little black apron that says “Freddie’s” and who keeps walking past them with trays of food and beverages, to stop. (That, plus a strategically placed foot along her path.)
“Hi, mynameisJessicaandI’llbeyourwaitresstoday” says one little black apron with boobs. No exaggeration; there were no spaces between her words. “Finally!” thought the woman. The husband points to the table beside them and says he’d like that refreshing looking cocktail that “he” is having. Luckily “he” didn’t hear him say this because “he” was actually a “she”. The wife didn’t want to confuse young Jessica so she ordered the same thing. “2 Rum Runners coming up” she said and she bounced away. Rum runners? That didn’t sound wise to either of them but it was too late.
The Rum Runner’s should be called Rum Crawlers because they arrived at a crawl and then crawled through their blood stream one limb at a time. Not really the kind of blood sugar the woman needed but it did dull the daggers and veil the venom for a bit. They ordered simple, easy to prepare meals and waited. And waited.
After 45 minutes the woman tripped politely asked Jessica when they could expect their meals. “I’ll go check with the kitchen and let you know” she chirped and disappeared again. 10 minutes later the woman spotted Jessica having a cigarette and flirting with a tall tattooed boy in the parking lot. “Seriously?” she thought. Another 5 minutes passed and Jessica approached their table all coy and dripping with sweetness. “Um, there was a problem with your meal and it was accidentally burnt but they are rushing another one for you right now. It shouldn’t be long and I just couldn’t serve you nice people a burnt meal.” she gushed.
So 1 hour and 30 minutes after arriving for a very late lunch the couple were served their meals. They may or may not have been tasty. It didn’t really matter at that point. The husband was enjoying his rum buzz and all the little black aprons around him and the wife had a case of Stockholm syndrome (–noun – an emotional attachment to a captor formed by a hostage as a result of continuous stress, dependence, and a need to cooperate for survival.)
They left the obligatory 20% tip and happily went on their way.
Full disclosure: I have been the waitress in the small black apron in a previous life and I can tell you that it can be a very tough job, which is why I am always generous when the service is good or I’ve had a few. I also know when someone is slacking off. Also, to all servers, pahleeze don’t touch the top half of my glass, you know, the part where my lips are going to make contact. That’s my territory. Bottom half of the glass is for you, top half of glass is for me. Thank you.