Friday night I went out to eat with my family. Indecision and suggestions floated around until Mexican was decided upon. Great! It’s been a long stressful day and I had in mind one humongous margarita.
Strike One
Having arrived at the restaurant and been seated the waitress came to take our drink orders. A quick question revealed that there was no bar at this particular Mexican restaurant. What!? A Mexican restaurant without a bar; who’s ever heard of such a thing? No bar… no beer… no margaritas. How sad.
Strike Two
The dinner dispensation process was fairly uneventful and before long I had my cold sweet tea and my Letter K. And wouldn’t you know it somebody walks up and recognizes us. That’s fine, I’m not completely antisocial. However, after the first five minutes when everyone is caught up on the how are you and how are you and where are you going to church, the conversation just keeps going on like the Energizer bunny. I started eating because I was slightly irritable not having had my Margarita. At some point I over heard the lady talking about their kid getting a cat and hoping for a boy cat, but they ended up with a girl cat, but then they were giving it a bath and oh look it really is a boy. Seriously? People are having dinner and you want to drone on about the gender of your pet cat?
Strike Three
The service to begin with was a bit slower than I’d have liked, but not too bad. After that however things really slowed down and our waitress was not extremely available, so another waiter came over to help out. He came several times filling drinks and asking if we needed anything. Much better… until.
I had finished my dinner and the kids were just picking at their food. The new waiter was clearing off unused items from the table and I heard him say, “Would you like anything for desert, Buddy?” Not only were those the words that I heard, but he said it as if he were talking to a child or a dog. That’s cool… he must be talking to my seven year old son, right? Oh nay, nay. It was quickly apparent from everyone at the table staring at me that he was actually addressing me. Buddy!?
There’s a really funny comedy skit by Dane Cook where he talks about being in a fast food restaurant and going back to the counter for ketchup. During this encounter the cashier calls him Buddy, to which he responds in like force and comedy genius ensues. That’s the only thing I could think of. Time came to a halt. The entire table was looking at me waiting for a response. A single word, “Buddy” was ringing in my ears.
At this point I figure I had three options:
- I could quickly grab my left shoulder with my right hand and try to bite my right ear
- I could respond as Dane Cook would have with a, “No thanks, Pal (or Tiger, Chief, Scooter, etc)”
- Or I could ignore him
I chose number three and simply shook my head no, to which my wife kindly interpreted to the insane waiter and said, “No thanks” for me.
So naturally I look over at my wife after he leaves and find that she has the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. After a second she says in a quite condescending tone, “Are you sure you don’t want desert… Buddy?” I had no choice at this point but to laugh at the situation.
No beer.
No margarita.
Buddy.