Clocks ticking

Lunch rush, almost weeded but not quite yet.

Twelve-top’s food is in, two two-tops are eating and just sat a new one, four-top is all set to order they tell me.

Unfortunately the table of four are the ladies who lunch. These are typically menopausal types living on either their husbands handsome salary, or their ex-husbands handsome alimony package.

They seem to have nothing to do but harass waiters and baristas apparently.

“I just can’t decide?” Said the last lady at the table.

“Well if you would like a minute I certainly can stop back.” I offer, more out of necessity for my other tables than her convenience.

“No no, we’re ready to order, I just need a second,” she replied.

I figured she had all the time she needed, by the time her friends had modified everything on the menu beyond recognition, she had at least two minutes extra to decide.

I started an experiment, I counted down from thirty.

When I reached five seconds, she asked me to go over the lunch features, again.
For the third time.

I counted down from thirty again, by this time I really needed to be at my new table.

“I just don’t know, what would you recommend?” She asked.

I went over my prefab “ladies who lunch” favorites and she just shook her head.

I started counting down again. By this time my new table was looking for their waiter, the tables with food required refills.

Worst of all my pager was buzzing in my pocket, that meant my large parties food was up and getting cold.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1...

Another thirty seconds counted off with me standing in from of her silent like an idiot.

“Oh I’ll just have what she’s having!” The lady exclaimed.

The table between their indecisiveness and ridiculous special orders just cost me five minutes away from my other customers.

How difficult is it to read a menu and tell someone when you’re really ready?

I hightailed it to my new table.


“Oh, we’ve already had a server.” He said.

Great, management sent over another waiter because I couldn’t get there, that just cost me one of my tables and a tip.

I ran past my twelve, apparently another server had dropped their food.

As I was about to grab refills for my other tables the difficult lady stopped me.

“Is it too late to change my order? I want the special.” She asked.

“I’m sorry miss, your dinner is almost done.” I said.

“But I really don’t want that now.” She replied.

“Well I can order it for you, but that means we probably have to throw away the dinner you ordered.” I said.

A look of discomfort crossed her face.

“I really want the special.” She said.

“Fair enough, I’ll tell the kitchen.”

“Hey guys, cancel table ten’s order, she wants the special.” I shouted to the kitchen,

The chef at expo groaned, “We’re to busy for this shit, I can’t resell this, it’s a special order.”

“I’m just the messenger,” I protested.

“Just be sure to tell her a kid just starved to death in Africa,” said the chef as he dumped her plate into the garbage.

Something tells me she couldn’t care.