The pain continued on and on and on. This
dish despot would not relent. She had the taste of power and could not
let go. She went on about the forks, about rolling them in napkins, about
how full the bin should exactly be in the morning. This guy works for
tips, at a place that the average bill is $30. He doesn't need to take
this kind of crap, but he did. He took it with dignity, despite the fact
that this mayonnaise monarch would not let up. Once the guy went over to
take care of his customers and was out of range of the grief, the dining room
director started going on about it to other employee who just happened to be in
the vicinity. On and on, blah blah
blah. Bossing everyone around and making
their lives impossible.
Finally, when our meal was done. Yes we had to listen this though out our whole meal. We asked for the check. Over in the kitchen we could hear some of the workers chatting in Spanish. My friend, who understands Spanish, starts cracking up. Apparently, these people were the resistance movement. They were openly mocker miss dinner despot. It wasn't their fault that she didn't speak their language. We left a few disparaging remarks for the Table wear Tyrant, but she never got them since they were written in crayon on the place mats that were bussed off the table. To us she was just a pathetic wannabe, even though in her world she was the Queen of Ketchup. It just goes to show how ridiculous you look when you think you are at your coolest. Just something to keep in mind.