“Oh God, please let this be our food!”
A cavalcade of 19-year-old boys shoot out of the kitchen area that I thought was the men’s room earlier, balancing trays in a synchronised speedwalk. Are those my enchiladas? They certainly look like my enchiladas.
“Guys, the food is–” I say to my family, preparing them.
I neatly stack our dirty appetiser plates atop what’s left of the sampler platter and scoot them towards the edge of the table, being helpful as shit. I’ve shockingly never actually been a waiter before, but I’ve eaten at a lot of restaurants and seem to have the intuitive instincts that most waiters, the astute ones anyhow, often appreciate in various degrees of furtive acknowledgement.
“Sir, be careful, this plate is really hot.”
I size the guy up with jocular curiosity, making the business decision not to say anything, only due to the lack of jocular curiosity on the rest of my family members’ faces. Can you fucking believe this guy, though? Like, yeah, ok, maybe in the pink doughy hands of a teenage virgin the plate needs to be held with a fabric napkin, but I’m pretty sure my fully-formed adult hands can handle the plate of enchiladas that I fucking paid for!
Hmm, no one else’s plate appears to be too hot to touch, so I guess he’s making this personal. It just kind of seems like a weird flex from somebody who presumably wants a tip. I guess he can touch the plate because he’s a “professional”. What a hero, this guy, warning idiotic patrons like myself not to get too handsy with the porcelain. I was planning on eating these enchiladas pie-eating contest style before this good samaritan came along to tell me not to get too close to the plate they brought out to me, which just so happens to have my dinner on it.
My family’s already started eating, expecting me to forget all about this and just “follow orders”.
But I have to touch the plate now because this bozo biffed the landing. The plate placement is all fucked up. He rushed it because his little fingies were getting too warm, and now it’s practically in the middle of the table. But don’t worry, I’ll fix it.
OH MY FUCK, are they trying to kill me!? You can’t bring out plates this hot! What the hell is wrong with this kid?
