I am standing by a table, patiently waiting, while a woman mulls over the menu for the umpteenth time.
They’ve been sitting for forty-five minutes, drunken two rounds of martinis, and I’ve repeated the specials five times. The other guests, fidgeting with the utensils, made up their minds long ago. It’s all on her and she’s cracking under the pressure.
“The rack of lamb here is excellent.” I gently suggest.
“The portion is too big.” She replies.
“You can always take it home.”
“No.” she says flatly.
I can feel the eyes of my other customers burning holes in the back of my skull. I have other orders to take; drinks to fetch. This is taking way too long.
“Would you like more time to decide?” I ask. The woman’s husband groans. I hear a stomach rumble.
“No wait here.”
She pulls on her lower lip, sighs, and flips back to the start of the menu.
Tick tock. Tick tock. I hum the tune to Jeopardy.
“Do you know what I want?” she says, looking up hopelessly.
This is all passive aggressive behavior. She must be really pissed at me or her friends to make us wait this long. Maybe Dad didn’t give her a pony. I don’t give a fuck. It’s time for shock therapy.
“The psychic waiter is off today. He’ll be in tomorrow.” I say, putting some steel in my voice.
The husband looks at me in surprise. I wink.
He smiles and pulls the menu out of her hand.
“She is having the rack of lamb medium rare. Thank you.” he says decisively.
“Very good sir.” I say fleeing.
Mrs. Flip Flop has put me in the weeds. I run the rest of the night playing catch up. I dread when it comes time for dessert.
The moral of the story? Don’t take forever when ordering. This is not life and death stuff. It’s only fucking FOOD.
Look where it ends up in 24 hours.