Wednesday, April 25, 2012


     Years ago my dad took my sister and I on a vacation to San Francisco.  The woman my dad was dating (and later married for a short period of time) flew in from New York and met us there.  I turned thirteen on that trip and I'll never forget getting to our room at the Millefiori Inn and seeing a carafe of wine on the bedside table.  I tried some--hey it was there--and I almost spit it out.
     But one of the more memorable things from that trip was all of the waitresses we had.  They were terrible.  They were mean.  They were rude.  And for some reason they all kept telling us whenever we ordered something that there was a minimum. We got it.  Why keep telling a group of four "there's a minimum?"  We're most likely going to meet the minimum-there's four of us, we need to eat and we don't have a refrigerator back in our hotel rooms where we're storing food thereby not making us hungry.
     After the first two times a waitress hissed "there's a minimum" to us, it became our joke.  We'd get to a new restaurant and see if the waitress would spew the same line as the last one.  And low and behold she would.  My sister and I'd end up cackling and almost falling out of our booth because we were laughing so hard.  We decided that all of our waitresses had attended the San Francisco School of Waitressing, because where else and why else would they all have been saying the exact same thing?

No comments:

Post a Comment