Posted: 2/14/2013 4:29 PM
"Are you the meat bringer?"
The 20ish blonde woman sat our drinks down and let loose a polite laugh. "Your food should be out shortly. The kitchen just had a bit of confusion about your order. It shouldn't be long." She walked away, blondely. I turned to my wife, Emily, and shot her a puzzled look.
"They're called 'servers,'" my wife whispered when she was out of earshot. "And if you hadn't ordered steak and replaced all of your sides with 'also steak,' the food would have been here by now. Why do you have to make everything difficult?"
There was some logic hidden in there if I were to dig deep enough, but something still didn't feel quite right about this whole situation. It was our first Valentine's Day as a married couple, and Emily's defense of our meat bringer just wasn't sitting well with me. Scanning the dining room, I spotted the kitchen, normally hidden behind two doors -- but in this case, they had made their peepholes way too big, so I could see right through. Christ, they must have been 2 feet in diameter. Dumb move, door designer.
Inside was a flurry of white-hatted meat cookers, frantically increasing the temperature of cow chunks and speaking in a strange language that must have been some sort of code. I know this because even though I couldn't hear them, I am an expert lip reader, and I clearly saw one of them mouth the words "Fluffy Jeff pickles wash monkey ferns. Trash monster." It wasn't the first time I had heard this code. I knew it meant "John Cheese is out there. Season his food with murder poison."
Posted: 2/14/2013 9:16 PM
Posted: 2/15/2013 5:56 PM
Of course it is perfectly normal to move for your favorite sports team.
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