My husband and I went out for a late dinner last week after church. As we pulled into the restaurant parking lot we noticed that the workers were having a communal smoke break outside the back door. We should have known things would only go downhill from there but we gave it a go anyway.
Nobody was inside the restaurant to greet us when we arrived. When the host finally finished out back and hosted, it took him a few minutes to gather all of the menus and determine where my husband and I were going to sit. I’m not sure why he couldn’t figure it out because other than two booths, seating was wide open.
After we were seated, the host announced he also would be our server. I remember when we used to call the person who took your order and brought the food to the table a ‘waitress’. Years later we added the term ‘waiter’ and then used whichever was appropriate. Now, we have to call all of them ‘servers’. ‘Waitress’ is so forbidden that it comes up as an incorrectly spelled word as I type this fabulously funny story in Word. To be honest, I have trouble keeping up with all the rules about what we can call people and on occasion, I use the wrong term. I don’t do it on purpose and I don’t do it to be derogatory or demeaning; I just forget that the word used for over 50 years is no longer an acceptable word to use.
After the waiter took our order and called the cook in from outside the back door, he went out for another smoke. When he finally returned, our meals were ready and he brought them to the table. At that same moment, a small white object flew in dart-like fashion over my head, hit the wall, bounced back over my head, and fell to the floor at the side of the table. Our server acted as if he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He probably always see things flying around inside the restaurant. After all, he does a lot of communal smoking outside the back door.
About midway across the restaurant was another server. She was picking a ketchup bottle up off the floor. She had a sheepish grin on her face as she glanced over to our table. Seems she dropped the bottle and a section of the lid broke off and flew over and back across my head. She thought it was fabulously funny and so did I. The server still doesn’t know what happened, nor did he care. He went out for another smoke break.
When it was time to leave, the waiter turned server wanted to turn checkout person but he couldn’t locate our check. I guess he didn’t put in his little check holding belt or maybe he did and it got lost among all the other checks he managed that night. I jokingly commented that no check meant no payment. He said he didn’t care if we left without paying. “That’s fine with me,’ he said, “I get paid whether or not you pay.” I think he was trying to bait us into a chew and screw, but we had just gone to church and we weren’t biting.
When we pulled out of the restaurant parking lot, all of the workers were having a communal smoke outside the back door. They were huddled together passing around something that looked like a rolled up check. Oh good, our server found the original.
Thanks for reading my fabulously funny story! Have a happy Memorial Day and thank you to all who sacrificed so I can sit here and write fabulously funny stories about everyday life.