We went to a local sit-down eatery that closes at 8 during the summertime for a late dinner. It's a sandwich place with a bakery on the premises, and it should really be doing a lot better than it is. We were the only two people in the place and ordered our sandwiches at the place-your-order-and-pay counter.
The restaurant should be doing better than it is because of the hours it is open. It opens at 7 in the morning because bread and pastries are made fresh and the breakfast crowd rolls in for their bagels, cinnamon raisin toast, and egg-on-bagel sandwiches that are all the rage at every place you go to eat breakfast. The place closes at 8 in the summertime and at 6 p.m. in the Spring, Fall, and Winter. It has always been my feeling, and I'm no expert in restaurant operations, that the place should be open later, like until midnight or so, during the school year because the place has a liquor license and, at least, on weekends, it can cater to the after-high-school-sports-events revelers, who are mostly adults, who have made high school sports in this town the biggest thing since sliced bread and celebrate victories with great cheer and drown their sorrows after losses. Of course, the place might slip up and sell a beer to a minor here and there, just like the other places in town, who just happens to be one of the football, basketball, hockey, volleyball, track, baseball, or softball heroes.
In any event, summer should be the slow time -- and it is. We had ordered lattes and picked those up at the pick-up-your-latte counter, which was another counter in the establishment. We took a table near the pick-up-your-food counter and waited for the avocado-and-provolone-on-white and the ham, turkey, swiss cheese, lettuce, mayo, hot mustard, and pepperocinis on a crusty, French roll to be made.
Seconds later, over the public address loudspeaker, I heard, "NUMBER 78, NUMBER 78!" which was exactly the number on the receipt the young woman at the order counter gave me. I looked around. Nobody else had snuck in while we were not looking.
I pushed back my wooden chair from the table, which was in full view of the young woman at the pick-up-your-food counter, who was the same woman who had taken the order. I guess she was playing dual roles here.
It was strange in an X-Files kind of way that she just did not swing around the counter with the tray and walk the fourteen steps to our table and give us our food. Habit, I guess. I could understand -- S.O.P. She was probably ex-military -- or, more likely, ex-school cafeteria. No problem. Really. I could understand.
I walked up to the counter and reached for the tray with our sandwiches. Her hand moved to hold on to the lip of the brown plastic tray. I looked at her, and she asked, "Number 78?"
Posted by Bill at August 12, 2003 08:39 PMi wish you would have freaked her out and said, "oh, sorry, thought you said 77."
Posted by: stacey at August 13, 2003 11:45 AMWell you never know, someone could have sneaked in and taken your sandwiches. At last in Frnce they are waking up to the idea than sandwich making is an art.
Posted by: Anji at August 14, 2003 04:37 AMI liked Stacey's comment - and even more freaky would have to pointed to a corner and then told her you were collecting it for "him".
And here I thought Americans were the intelligent and superior of all the human race? *lol*
Posted by: Michelle at August 14, 2003 07:14 AMmichelle: americans? does the world think americans actually think that? hmmmm. well, umm. i guess some do. proof that they're idjits. you know, it's like everything else -- the creeps are what you see and remember. wow. this is intense. have to have BILL blog on it.
Posted by: stacey at August 14, 2003 10:08 AM