The exercise:
Write about: the bill.
Kat had a pretty bad allergic reaction while she was harvesting cherry tomatoes on Tuesday and we were fairly certain it was due to one of the weeds that has taken up residence in that area of the garden. So I spent some time with those weeds this morning and after dinner. Had a nice long chat. Discussed career possibilities.
But mostly? I yanked them out of the ground.
Hoping that did the trick, as there are more cherry tomatoes ready to be picked tomorrow for the market. Aiming to bring some berries, corn, garlic, apples, peaches, and plums along with them. They're calling for a beautiful couple of days, weather-wise, so here's hoping the forecasters know what they're talking about this time.
Mine:
"What the hell is this?"
"It's the bill? You know, traditionally delivered at the conclusion of a restaurant meal?"
"Ah yes, I've heard of that. Never actually seen one before."
"I'm not sure how that could be possible."
"And this here, up at the top?"
"That's a smiley face. A little personal touch from our waiter, I suppose."
"Well. At least my suspicions that we were being served by a child have been confirmed. Likely means the food was actually sourced from the local pound as well."
"I... I don't think that would be..."
"Anyway, thank you for showing me it. Pay up and we'll be on our way - I've got more meetings this afternoon than I care to think about. Good thing I don't have to, huh? That's your job!"
"But you don't pay me enough to be able to afford this, Henri..."
3 comments:
Ouch, allergic reactions to things growing in the garden can't be good! I'm glad that the outcome of your discussions with the weeds was an agreement that they should take up residence elsewhere (the compost pile?). And I hope you get the good weather you're being promised :)
Ah, Henri returns! And on top obnoxious form as well. I do like his unfamiliarity with the concept of a bill and his delegation of everything save breathing and enjoying the squirming of his subordinates!
But I do wonder what caused the waiter to add a smiley face to the top of the bill if he was serving Henri....
The bill
"What the hell is this?"
"It's the bill. You know, traditionally one of the conclusions of a duck, or many other waterfowl?"
"Well what's it doing on my plate?"
"Waiting to be eaten, Sir...." The waiter forced a smile back to his face and waited for the next explosion. However, rather to his surprise, Evan picked up a fork and prodded the crisp yellow beak on his plate. It crackled and slid away across the polished china.
"And I can use my fingers?"
"Well, yes, Sir." The waiter's expression didn't change as Evan picked the beak up and crunched his way through it, giving every impression of enjoying himself. He wiped his fingers on his napkin and pushed the plate away.
"Not bad, though I've had better," he said. The waiter tried to be expressionless, but something must have betrayed him. "We grew up poor and on a farm," he said. "My mother would make every part of an animal count. I've eaten hooves, tails, ears, whiskers and what was basically leather after one of the cows got struck by lightning."
"You have?" The waiter's astonishment was enough to draw attention from other diners in the restaurant.
"Oh yes. Please pass my compliments to the chef and tell her that it would benefit from a little longer in the fryer."
"... how did you know Chef is a woman?"
"She's my sister."
Her scowl deepened. “You charged me for a refill on milk?”
I gulped. The other servers had warned me about Mrs. Perkins and how she treated everyone at the restaurant. “It’s our policy. Only coffee, water, and soda has free refills.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh really? Then why don’t you say that to the customer before they order?”
“If you would look at the menu, ma’am, you would—“
“You should inform the customer before you charge!” Her voice had risen and the patrons at the surrounding tables turned to look at us. She waved the bill in my face. “If I would have known I’d be charged an extra $1.89 for trying to be healthier, ordering milk instead of my diet coke, I would never have sat down!”
Sarah, having come from nowhere, pushed me to the side and started doing her managerial magic. I slunk back to the kitchen. As the other servers tried to console me, I tried to recover my service-with-a-smile attitude by munching on bacon and chocolate chips. I knew I failed the test. I’d never survive the restaurant business if I couldn’t satisfy picky patrons like Mrs. Perkins.
When I came back to the front, Mrs. Perkins had left. I went to clear off the table, noticing instantly that she didn’t leave behind a tip.
Greg - I'd like to think that the waiter put the smiley face on the bill just to antagonize him...
I'm sitting here trying to imagine what it would be like to actually eat a duck bill and it is all your fault.
Just so you know.
Ivybennet - ugh, difficult customers drive me crazy. Whether I'm the one dealing with them directly or watching someone else suffer through it.
I think you captured the feeling quite nicely here.
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