In yet another attempt to impress a rather unimpressive girl, one of our tightly tipping Armenian regulars pulled out all the stops whilst dining with a classy girl.
She of dark skin (a blend of something beautiful and Persian), 5'8", and sporting generously inflated basketball breasts; he of hair everywhere except upstairs, 5'5", and sporting a silk button-down boasting three competing shades of purple - they were a sight to see. And they deemed themselves royalty.
He snapped his fingers at me as they were seated.
"Two shots Grey Goose and Red Bull," we said in unison, me being quite accustomed to this instruction after enduring it for countless nights.
"Yeah we still don't carry Red Bull," I said.
"You did last time..."
"We did not last time," I replied. "Your server was desperate enough to run into the drug store next door to buy one for you."
"Well then why don't you..."
"No, absolutely not," I interjected.
"I come here all the time," he countered.
"No, I come here all the time," I said (an overused favorite, but a favorite nonetheless).
"Fine just two Grey Goose and cranberry shots," he said, waiving me away.
I returned shortly with the shots. I said nothing.
"We're not ready to order yet!" he barked as if I had suggested it at gunpoint.
"Did I ask?"
"Yes!" he said.
"I most certainly did not."
His girlfriend would have weighed in but she was busy taking selfies, each one with lips more insincerely pouty than the one before.
"We'll let you know when we're ready," he said while staring directly down his lady's decolletage.
Minutes later I was once again summoned snapped to the table.
"We are hungry," he informed me.
"Good thing we're in a restaurant," I said.
"I want fried burrito," we said in unison, me being quite accustomed to this request after enduring it for countless nights.
"Yeah we still don't have fried burritos," I said.
"You did last time..."
"We did not last time," I replied. "You are thinking of Casa Vega down the street."
With no rebuttal, he ordered for the two of them.
Shortly after their food arrived, I was snapped back to the table.
The girl was pointing expressionlessly at her plate, believing perhaps that I'd been imbued with a gift of supernatural sight. I couldn't see anything.
"There is long black hair in my cheek-en," she said with a mock pout.
Everyone in our kitchen that evening was male with short hair, and all wearing hair nets. The girlfriend, however, was constantly and conveniently playing with her many long black hairs as if they were a newspaper she was attempting to read.
"And we've ruled out that the hair might have been yours?" I asked.
"Nah I swear I saw right when plate was sat down," she said.
"Uhhh huh..." I said while retracting the dish.
The kitchen kindly and quickly remade the entree. I delivered it with a noticeable layer of Saran Wrap around the plate.
"Just to be extra safe," I said with a smile.
He eventually asked for the bill, this one a predictable $56.34, his usual total (give or take a few dollars).
"Take dis and keep change," we said in unison, me being quite accustomed to this instruction after enduring it for countless nights.