The Last Supper
Lindsay stared at her plate. The waiter was smirking, his hands tucked behind his back.
“What IS this?” Lindsay asked.
“Your salad, miss.” The waiter was wearing one of those snobby server aprons. It was white and stainless and looked ironed.
“No, there’s a misunderstanding,” said Lindsay, “I ordered the house salad.”
“This IS the house salad, miss,” the waiter said, condescendingly. “It’s the arugula con scallops especial.” The waiter stalked off to harass another customer.
Lindsay picked through the fountain-like stack of fish on her plate.
“What the hell happened to this place?” Lindsay asked Sam.
“What? It’s classy, honey. It’s totally hot.” Sam was looking at his Cartier watch while shoveling some kind of tuna burger in his mouth.
“Shut up.” Lindsay tried a taste of the salad. She spit out some of the carrot shavings.
“Oh, Lindsay, please! Don’t spit in public!”
“Fuck you, Sam. We’re breaking up. That’s why you dragged me here. Isn’t it? The last straw! The final slap of humiliation! You’re taking your hick girlfriend to some upscale Manhattan restaurant to humiliate me and then break up with me!” Lindsay started pushing scallops all over the twelve inch plate, decimating the six-inch-tall stack of food.
“Hon, it’s our anniversary.” Sam was patronizing.
“I KNOW it’s our anniversary. You do this to me on purpose! You’re trying to poison me with this yuppie food! I just wanted a freakin’ burger. You know, beef? A patty, slightly rounded? On a bun? With lettuce, not some weird weed grown in the South of France? Jesus. I can’t wait for the main course. No, really, Sam, I can’t wait.” Lindsay was steaming.
Sam smiled at a nearby table of onlookers. He mouthed, “Withdrawals” to the table. The onlookers raised their eyebrows in understanding and went back to their conversation.
Lindsay saw the whole exchange.
“Excuse me!” she yelled to the table of onlookers. “Hey! Hello…yeah, you, people. I am NOT going through withdrawals. This man is trying to kill me. He’s dumping me and killing me on our anniversary! When I wind up dead in a dumpster outside of Radio City Hall tomorrow and you see my mug in the New York Times if they still post that kind of thing, well, yeah, you’ll be sorry you believed him. I don’t have a problem with withdrawals. I firmly believe in staying ON my drug of choice, thank you very much.”
The waiter approached with the main course, presumably. He whisked the salad plates away.
“Hey, I was eating that!” Lindsay cried.
The waiter made no reply and slapped the plate down in front of her. Lindsay took a moment to look at this new insult called a meal.
“I ordered a chicken breast.” Lindsay said.
“It is a chicken breast…marinated in the finest sunflower oil and brushed with wheat germ. It is then sliced to perfection and wrapped around baby pickles. The whole affair is then made a soufflé with some squash and toothpicks.” Now the waiter was just mocking her.
Sam smiled behind one manicured hand.
Lindsay grabbed the waiter by his collar and yanked his face eye-level. Now, all of the patrons were observing Lindsay.
“Listen, you scum of all servers, you trial of all mankind, you filth from the homeless man’s rags, don’t EVER humiliate me again. Now, tell me something,” (and she shook the waiter a little, so that his eyes watered), “Tell me what you had for dinner tonight.”
The waiter swallowed nervously. Clearly, he was dealing with a psychiatric patient.
“I had a bowl of macaroni and cheese and a ham sandwich,” the waiter squeaked.
“Oh, really? Well, that sounds nice. Yes! That sounds perfectly reasonable! What a nice, wholesome dinner! What a pleasant thing to dig into! My! I certainly would LOVE a bowl of macaroni and cheese and a ham sandwich! Maybe you should march right back into that kitchen and prepare something like that for me!” Lindsay let go of the now whimpering waiter and sighed heavily. The waiter limped away, head down.
Sam said, “Remember the Sesame Street character who went to the restaurant and Grover was always the waiter? And how Grover kept messing up the order? And how, eventually, the customer would get so angry he would leave or go into the kitchen and yell at the chef? Think about that for awhile.”
“Don’t make light of this! Don’t do it! This happens every time I go out with you. EVERY TIME! You’re plotting my death, is what it is, you fiend.” Lindsay was screeching.
The waiter returned with a B.L.T. and a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
“How’s this, ma’am?” His entire demeanor had changed.
Lindsay looked at the food set before her and smiled, just a little.
“Now THIS,” she proclaimed, “is REAL food.” And she dug in, without another word.
As Sam and Lindsay were leaving, the waiter pulled Sam aside.
“Sir, what will the review read?” the waiter asked.
“My wife does not affect my review material,” Sam replied. “You’ll see the review in the paper.”
The next morning, while eating dry toast and nursing his pride, the waiter found the review in the Metro section. He was found later in the week, hanging purple from a ceiling fan.
“What IS this?” Lindsay asked.
“Your salad, miss.” The waiter was wearing one of those snobby server aprons. It was white and stainless and looked ironed.
“No, there’s a misunderstanding,” said Lindsay, “I ordered the house salad.”
“This IS the house salad, miss,” the waiter said, condescendingly. “It’s the arugula con scallops especial.” The waiter stalked off to harass another customer.
Lindsay picked through the fountain-like stack of fish on her plate.
“What the hell happened to this place?” Lindsay asked Sam.
“What? It’s classy, honey. It’s totally hot.” Sam was looking at his Cartier watch while shoveling some kind of tuna burger in his mouth.
“Shut up.” Lindsay tried a taste of the salad. She spit out some of the carrot shavings.
“Oh, Lindsay, please! Don’t spit in public!”
“Fuck you, Sam. We’re breaking up. That’s why you dragged me here. Isn’t it? The last straw! The final slap of humiliation! You’re taking your hick girlfriend to some upscale Manhattan restaurant to humiliate me and then break up with me!” Lindsay started pushing scallops all over the twelve inch plate, decimating the six-inch-tall stack of food.
“Hon, it’s our anniversary.” Sam was patronizing.
“I KNOW it’s our anniversary. You do this to me on purpose! You’re trying to poison me with this yuppie food! I just wanted a freakin’ burger. You know, beef? A patty, slightly rounded? On a bun? With lettuce, not some weird weed grown in the South of France? Jesus. I can’t wait for the main course. No, really, Sam, I can’t wait.” Lindsay was steaming.
Sam smiled at a nearby table of onlookers. He mouthed, “Withdrawals” to the table. The onlookers raised their eyebrows in understanding and went back to their conversation.
Lindsay saw the whole exchange.
“Excuse me!” she yelled to the table of onlookers. “Hey! Hello…yeah, you, people. I am NOT going through withdrawals. This man is trying to kill me. He’s dumping me and killing me on our anniversary! When I wind up dead in a dumpster outside of Radio City Hall tomorrow and you see my mug in the New York Times if they still post that kind of thing, well, yeah, you’ll be sorry you believed him. I don’t have a problem with withdrawals. I firmly believe in staying ON my drug of choice, thank you very much.”
The waiter approached with the main course, presumably. He whisked the salad plates away.
“Hey, I was eating that!” Lindsay cried.
The waiter made no reply and slapped the plate down in front of her. Lindsay took a moment to look at this new insult called a meal.
“I ordered a chicken breast.” Lindsay said.
“It is a chicken breast…marinated in the finest sunflower oil and brushed with wheat germ. It is then sliced to perfection and wrapped around baby pickles. The whole affair is then made a soufflé with some squash and toothpicks.” Now the waiter was just mocking her.
Sam smiled behind one manicured hand.
Lindsay grabbed the waiter by his collar and yanked his face eye-level. Now, all of the patrons were observing Lindsay.
“Listen, you scum of all servers, you trial of all mankind, you filth from the homeless man’s rags, don’t EVER humiliate me again. Now, tell me something,” (and she shook the waiter a little, so that his eyes watered), “Tell me what you had for dinner tonight.”
The waiter swallowed nervously. Clearly, he was dealing with a psychiatric patient.
“I had a bowl of macaroni and cheese and a ham sandwich,” the waiter squeaked.
“Oh, really? Well, that sounds nice. Yes! That sounds perfectly reasonable! What a nice, wholesome dinner! What a pleasant thing to dig into! My! I certainly would LOVE a bowl of macaroni and cheese and a ham sandwich! Maybe you should march right back into that kitchen and prepare something like that for me!” Lindsay let go of the now whimpering waiter and sighed heavily. The waiter limped away, head down.
Sam said, “Remember the Sesame Street character who went to the restaurant and Grover was always the waiter? And how Grover kept messing up the order? And how, eventually, the customer would get so angry he would leave or go into the kitchen and yell at the chef? Think about that for awhile.”
“Don’t make light of this! Don’t do it! This happens every time I go out with you. EVERY TIME! You’re plotting my death, is what it is, you fiend.” Lindsay was screeching.
The waiter returned with a B.L.T. and a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
“How’s this, ma’am?” His entire demeanor had changed.
Lindsay looked at the food set before her and smiled, just a little.
“Now THIS,” she proclaimed, “is REAL food.” And she dug in, without another word.
As Sam and Lindsay were leaving, the waiter pulled Sam aside.
“Sir, what will the review read?” the waiter asked.
“My wife does not affect my review material,” Sam replied. “You’ll see the review in the paper.”
The next morning, while eating dry toast and nursing his pride, the waiter found the review in the Metro section. He was found later in the week, hanging purple from a ceiling fan.
posted by FRITZ at 7:01 PM
2 Comments:
I don't get this at all!!!!
So the waiter was actually the owner of the restaurant?
What was wrong with that lady?!
Why wasn't that waiter fired earlier for being an ass?
Seriously what was wrong with that lady?!
So the guy and that lady broke up?
Was the waiter a psychiatric patient too?
Who puts scallops in a salad. I mean really. Just tell the waiter he made a mistake, that earlier he'd been told that she was allergic to scallops, and demand a different dish.
Was that lady really crazy? She should have taken her crazy drugs.
Did the lady kill the waiter?!
Haha, Sam manicures his hands, he's like a lady too.
Can ceiling fans support human weight? That would be so embarassing if it broke. I bet CSI would be all, "Here's where he tried using the fan to kill himself. But he misjudged how much weight it could handle." "He wasn't exactly a rockett scientist, was he chief?" "Not really. He also tried drowning himself in the toilet, his head got stuck for... we're thinking about three hours. Then he went back into to the ceiling fan, reinforced it with duct tape and a crobar, and tried again. Halfway through he decided it was a bad idea though - kicked at this chair here, see how it's got that scuff mark on it? But it was too late." "Wow, chief. You're so smart. If I were a girl, I'd totally have your lovechild." "Yeah, if you were a girl, maybe we wouldn't make fun of you for having so much sex with men, too." "Ha-ha, let's get back to the case chief." "Oh, you remember that joke from last week?" "I think maybe someone else was involved here, chief." "What never helps with cases, is always wearing women's underwear, and has sex with men?" "...I don't know, what." "YOU! Hahaha." "Oh, go to hell."
CRUSH: I hated this story. I don't even know why I posted it. I hate it! It doesn't even make sense. I don't know...maybe the waiter WAS the owner. Maybe the wife/girlfriend wanted him dead. Maybe the review was just plain silly and the waiter killed himself over something else. I don't know. I HATE it.
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