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I delicately pick the crusted food from the fork.
“Why don’t you ask for a clean one?” asks Alice.
“It’s not that bad, almost got it.” I reply as my thumbnail scrapes across the front of a metal prong. It’s egg. Or something very like it. I turn the fork over where something thick and black, unidentifiable, clings on.
“You can't eat with that,” says Alice.
And she’s right, I can’t. I look up, eyes drifting past the wacky wall ornaments to the waiter, wearing his zany theme-restaurant tabard. He turns and sees me looking, and begins to head over, pulling his pad from a pocket on the way. My heart starts to race. My stomach cramps as if someone has just pulled my belt tight. My throat swells and I’m sure the words won’t come out. I practice them in my head, - could I please have a clean fork. Or would the ‘please’ be better at the end of the sentence. Maybe start with a ‘sorry to trouble you’. He arrives and the words are a jumble in my head. I hold out the fork and open my mouth. Nothing comes.
“Can I help you, Sir?” he asks.
“Could, I have a clean fork please?” I say, each word having to be forced out. I’m like an old man on his death bed struggling to deliver his last wishes.
There’s a pause. He’s staring at me.
“Clean fork? Clean fork? Who the hell do you think you are, the Prime Minister?”
He grabs the fork from me and spits on it, rubbing it in with his tabard.
“That clean enough, your majesty?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply as he thrusts it into my neck, blood spurting out onto the floor, against the walls, and into the food of the elderly couple sitting in the next booth.
Only that didn’t happen. It never happens, and yet it always does.
“Certainly, sir,” he says as he takes the offending item, returning moments later with a sparkling replacement, and a complementary bowl of nachos.
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” says Alice rubbing the backs of my hands with her palms..
But it was, and it always is. I smile weakly. My heart rate’s returned to its normal pace, and my stomach is looking forward to the food again. God help me if there’s a problem with it.
“Why don’t you ask for a clean one?” asks Alice.
“It’s not that bad, almost got it.” I reply as my thumbnail scrapes across the front of a metal prong. It’s egg. Or something very like it. I turn the fork over where something thick and black, unidentifiable, clings on.
“You can't eat with that,” says Alice.
And she’s right, I can’t. I look up, eyes drifting past the wacky wall ornaments to the waiter, wearing his zany theme-restaurant tabard. He turns and sees me looking, and begins to head over, pulling his pad from a pocket on the way. My heart starts to race. My stomach cramps as if someone has just pulled my belt tight. My throat swells and I’m sure the words won’t come out. I practice them in my head, - could I please have a clean fork. Or would the ‘please’ be better at the end of the sentence. Maybe start with a ‘sorry to trouble you’. He arrives and the words are a jumble in my head. I hold out the fork and open my mouth. Nothing comes.
“Can I help you, Sir?” he asks.
“Could, I have a clean fork please?” I say, each word having to be forced out. I’m like an old man on his death bed struggling to deliver his last wishes.
There’s a pause. He’s staring at me.
“Clean fork? Clean fork? Who the hell do you think you are, the Prime Minister?”
He grabs the fork from me and spits on it, rubbing it in with his tabard.
“That clean enough, your majesty?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply as he thrusts it into my neck, blood spurting out onto the floor, against the walls, and into the food of the elderly couple sitting in the next booth.
Only that didn’t happen. It never happens, and yet it always does.
“Certainly, sir,” he says as he takes the offending item, returning moments later with a sparkling replacement, and a complementary bowl of nachos.
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” says Alice rubbing the backs of my hands with her palms..
But it was, and it always is. I smile weakly. My heart rate’s returned to its normal pace, and my stomach is looking forward to the food again. God help me if there’s a problem with it.
Enjoyed that, because I ALWAYS feel JUST like that at restaurants. I hate asking for things or correcting people, even though I know I'm right...so I get my girlfriend to do it for me. {:)
Though sometimes she forces me, a little like Alice in the story. But I know she's only trying to help.
Though sometimes she forces me, a little like Alice in the story. But I know she's only trying to help.
What choo talkin' about? ;o)
Meka Dragon wrote:
> “You can eat with that,” says Alice.
> And she’s right, I can’t.
> “You can eat with that,” says Alice.
> And she’s right, I can’t.
Thanks for reading. I really should have called the waiter Mike to enhance the likelyhood of his expected actions.
Haha, loved that. I thought it was going to go a bit 'Crossbob' in the middle for a moment.
Haha, really good. For a minute I thought the reaction of the guy was a bit over the top but it matched up perfectly with the rest of the piece.
I delicately pick the crusted food from the fork.
“Why don’t you ask for a clean one?” asks Alice.
“It’s not that bad, almost got it.” I reply as my thumbnail scrapes across the front of a metal prong. It’s egg. Or something very like it. I turn the fork over where something thick and black, unidentifiable, clings on.
“You can't eat with that,” says Alice.
And she’s right, I can’t. I look up, eyes drifting past the wacky wall ornaments to the waiter, wearing his zany theme-restaurant tabard. He turns and sees me looking, and begins to head over, pulling his pad from a pocket on the way. My heart starts to race. My stomach cramps as if someone has just pulled my belt tight. My throat swells and I’m sure the words won’t come out. I practice them in my head, - could I please have a clean fork. Or would the ‘please’ be better at the end of the sentence. Maybe start with a ‘sorry to trouble you’. He arrives and the words are a jumble in my head. I hold out the fork and open my mouth. Nothing comes.
“Can I help you, Sir?” he asks.
“Could, I have a clean fork please?” I say, each word having to be forced out. I’m like an old man on his death bed struggling to deliver his last wishes.
There’s a pause. He’s staring at me.
“Clean fork? Clean fork? Who the hell do you think you are, the Prime Minister?”
He grabs the fork from me and spits on it, rubbing it in with his tabard.
“That clean enough, your majesty?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply as he thrusts it into my neck, blood spurting out onto the floor, against the walls, and into the food of the elderly couple sitting in the next booth.
Only that didn’t happen. It never happens, and yet it always does.
“Certainly, sir,” he says as he takes the offending item, returning moments later with a sparkling replacement, and a complementary bowl of nachos.
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” says Alice rubbing the backs of my hands with her palms..
But it was, and it always is. I smile weakly. My heart rate’s returned to its normal pace, and my stomach is looking forward to the food again. God help me if there’s a problem with it.
“Why don’t you ask for a clean one?” asks Alice.
“It’s not that bad, almost got it.” I reply as my thumbnail scrapes across the front of a metal prong. It’s egg. Or something very like it. I turn the fork over where something thick and black, unidentifiable, clings on.
“You can't eat with that,” says Alice.
And she’s right, I can’t. I look up, eyes drifting past the wacky wall ornaments to the waiter, wearing his zany theme-restaurant tabard. He turns and sees me looking, and begins to head over, pulling his pad from a pocket on the way. My heart starts to race. My stomach cramps as if someone has just pulled my belt tight. My throat swells and I’m sure the words won’t come out. I practice them in my head, - could I please have a clean fork. Or would the ‘please’ be better at the end of the sentence. Maybe start with a ‘sorry to trouble you’. He arrives and the words are a jumble in my head. I hold out the fork and open my mouth. Nothing comes.
“Can I help you, Sir?” he asks.
“Could, I have a clean fork please?” I say, each word having to be forced out. I’m like an old man on his death bed struggling to deliver his last wishes.
There’s a pause. He’s staring at me.
“Clean fork? Clean fork? Who the hell do you think you are, the Prime Minister?”
He grabs the fork from me and spits on it, rubbing it in with his tabard.
“That clean enough, your majesty?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply as he thrusts it into my neck, blood spurting out onto the floor, against the walls, and into the food of the elderly couple sitting in the next booth.
Only that didn’t happen. It never happens, and yet it always does.
“Certainly, sir,” he says as he takes the offending item, returning moments later with a sparkling replacement, and a complementary bowl of nachos.
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” says Alice rubbing the backs of my hands with her palms..
But it was, and it always is. I smile weakly. My heart rate’s returned to its normal pace, and my stomach is looking forward to the food again. God help me if there’s a problem with it.