Well, we did it again.
Best Friend and I decided to go out for supper the other night, after a long day of errands.
“We probably shouldn’t, given our past experiences, but what say we go to P—for a quick bite?” asked Best Friend.
“Oh, that’d be all right. I like their chicken soup, and—” said I.
“And I like their loaded potato soup!” piped in Best Friend.
So off we went.
It wasn’t crowded. We arrived and we were shown our table. We still had to wait for the table to be cleared and wiped off as we waited, standing while the waiter first took off the previous diners’ plates and silverware. He then disappeared. We stood at the table, waiting. He reappeared, realizing he didn’t wipe off the table. That (finally) done, we sat down.
We ordered our drinks within three minutes, and we ordered our meals at the same time, since we already knew what we wanted.
Twenty-seven minutes passed before Best Friend got his soup. It was room temperature, at best. Only then, when he was finished, were our meals served.
That was a little more than a half hour for my soup and sandwich, and Best Friend’s sandwich.
They also were room temperature, and the bread tasted like dried up cardboard.
Well, we’re done with this restaurant – but what really took the cake there was the doll-holding Twenty-Something-Little-Girl I wrote about in Three Strikes.
That is one strange place.
©2022 Colcannon Metropolis, excerpt from “Dining at Chez Ersatz”