Monday, April 11, 2011

Where, oh, Where???

     I was eating lunch today at a fast-food place. I'm not naming names, but it was the place that's been accused of omitting a good portion of its beef out of the orders. Point of the story is--it wasn't a five-star restaurant. Which brings me to the next point of my story--why is it so difficult to decide where to sit in a fast-food restaurant?
     We're not exactly looking for a seat with a view here. I've got two choices--either I can watch the traffic fly by on Academy Boulevard, or I can stare at the nearby 7-11 store. So where I choose to sit is basically a no-brainer. But it almost became a comedy of errors watching some people after they picked up their order.
     Okay, guys, I'll give you some credit here. It's usually the male who FIRST chooses the seat. He meanders on over to a booth, fixin' to sit down and tear into his triple-decker, soft/crunchy tacorino, when he suddenly is halted in his tracks. "That table's got some hot sauce on it. Let's find a cleaner table," she screeches. "This table is cleaner 'n that one," he counters. She shoots him THE LOOK. He obediently turns, drool dripping down his chin from the anticipation of biting into that tasty tacorino, and trudges to a table clear across the restaurant. It's the one with the view of Academy Boulevard.
     He places the tray on the table and begins to slide into the bench seat, but he's abruptly halted in that half-crouch position. "Eewww! I feel something sticky on this table. Let's move to that one over there," she orders, pointing back across the restaurant to the table next to the original choice. He glances at the tray filled with mouth-watering, heart-clogging temptations. Then he glances at the table across the way. Back and forth he shifts his glance, all the while maintaining the half-crouched position.
     "Come on," she growls. He pries himself away from the booth and trudges obediently to the other table. He carefully slides the now-lukewarm meal onto the table, hoping to salvage some semblance of a hot meal for lunch. He shoots a passing glance around the room, probably figuring this will not be his final destination. He's right. He doesn't even get into the crouch. "This table is too close to the door. Let's move to that one," she directs, pointing at...the original choice which, by now, has been wiped clean and invites hungry lunch-goers to utilize its dining prowess.
     She checks her watch. "Hurry up and eat!" she orders. "We're gonna be late for our appointment. I told you we didn't have time to eat lunch."
     By now, I'm on my third tacorino, trying to figure out what they did with the excess beef!

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