I drove to this neighborhood specifically to go to this Vietnamese place. I was craving me some pho soup. When I get there at 9:07, I discover they have been closed for the past seven minutes. Cursing not having left work earlier, I decide to wander down the street to a busy looking Italian place I saw when I drove by. It’s a beautiful warm night and the walk feels good. It’s nice to be moving at my own will as opposed to from one troubled computer to the other.
I get to the restaurant and as you walk past one of the windows, you can see right into the kitchen. Right down the galley style prep line. I am encouraged to see that everything is shiny clean and organized. The two cooks are working away and neither looks like he has the sniffles. I swell with confidence.
The patio is the type where the restaurant has decided to forego a few parking spots in their lot and put up some tables. I decide to go inside to tell the hostess I will be taking a table outside. She is in the middle of a salvo of ridiculous questions from a person ordering take out. She maintains remarkable poise throughout the ordeal. I’m reminded of Jack Nicholson’s character in As Good As it Gets. The guy is asking “What kind of turkey is it? Roast? Turkey breast? Dark and light meat? Or just the turkey loaf from the deli? And what do you mean by whole wheat? Is it like Wonder Bread brown? Or more of a whole grain? Do you offer more than just regular mustard? Is the lettuce iceberg, or romaine?” And on and on..
So finally he stops and muses for a moment, then announces, “I’ll be back later”. Turns on his heel, and leaves.
If this were a cartoon, and not real life, the waitress would have an array of different sized question marks surrounding a tornado shaped squiggle above her head.
As she watches him leave her gaze falls upon me. Sizing me up. I decide not to ask ANY questions and just wait for her to offer her sales pitch whenever she ready. In an attempt to help, I am smiling more than I should be.
She senses my nervousness and offers me a playful eye-roll and a smile. I commend her on her calmness when responding to Mr. Turkey Sandwich. I advise her I would like to sit outside. So she hands me a menu and tells me to have a seat where I want and someone will be right with me.
I navigate myself to the patio, find myself a good seat at a clean table near the sidewalk edge (good for people watching) and sit down. Chair puddle. Fuck. Not a small one either. I have soaked my entire ass. I jump up as if that will help. Stare at the chair in disgust. I then quickly sit in a nearby DRY chair to weigh my options. My entire ass is soaked and even though I am wearing an untucked shirt, it is not quite long enough to completely cover my shame. I do NOT want to sit in a plastic chair in the middle of a parking lot in wet pants. It hasn’t rained in 2 days. Is this even WATER? My vehicle is 2 blocks away because I parked close to the Vietnamese place and the sidewalk is teeming with people and buskers ready to cast judgment. The dining room chairs inside the restaurant are upholstered fabric. Maybe I could make my way back inside and ask for a table. Then proceed to allow the dining room chair to absorb my wetness a bit until I can sneak to the bathroom and hopefully use the hand dryer to dry my pants. Good plan.
I won’t re-narrate my actions as they occurred much the same as above. Except the hand dryer. Because there wasn’t one. But over the course of dinner, my pants dried out to a sufficient amount so that I could go back to my truck without embarrassment.
