Eat Your Pie

I was sitting in the local waffle shop here in town last night for dinner, I got a strong desire for pancakes at 7pm and really didn't want to make the effort of making fluffy golden disks of cake mix, and the syrup I have in the pantry... sucks. The restaurant doesn't have the godly stuff the Canadians produce, once you've had it, everything else is just above sweat from week old gym socks soaked in piss, if you can get the stuff smuggled out of the Great Nation to the North, do so, the jail time is worth it. I eat at this waffle shop all the time, going on thirty years of my life and since it's practically down the street from work, the place has become the staple of my diet for lunch for a couple years now. Hell, I know the menu better than some of the staff. The owners know me by name, and probably credit card number too. Everyone knows me there, by name and reputation. There's one waitress there that doesn't smile, and when she does it's one of those forced ones, and I have made it my life's mission to get this late twenty something woman to laugh. Not chuckle, but full out laugh until she cries. In six months I've gotten one real smile, that's it. This is also a small town, and my family has had five generations eat at that place since it opened sixty years ago, so I can't cause too much shit or they will tell my mom, and even at thirty-five, that's still a pain in the ass to deal with, worse they could call my grandma. This has happened a couple times around town in other stores, I can't get away with shit. I was dating this girl from work a long time ago, and didn't want people to really know about it, mostly because dating a coworker is frowned upon in most places, and by the time I took the girl home after our first date, I had four voicemails when I turned my phone back on; the first one was my mom wanting to know who she was, where I met her, how long this was going on; the second was my sister asking the same thing, and she freaking lived in a different state at the time; the third was my grandma wishing me an early happy birthday; and the fourth was my mom again asking that same thing, because I didn't call her back after thirty minutes of her last call. To this day, I can't fathom how my life became a big enough deal that ten different people, whom I did not know personally, spread this info around to my mom, an hour and a half before I took that girl home. Small towns are a pain in the ass if you want to keep anything on the down low.

I was sitting in the booth finishing my eggs that came with my pancakes, an older, early seventies old, couple sits in the booth next to me. I people watch around my book, or computer, when I eat by myself, it eases being bored and rushing through the meal, I wasn't at a fast food place. These people looked through the menu for a solid ten minutes, asked other people what was good, and then ordered coffee and a slice of chocolate cream pie. The old guy ordered for him and his wifeI one cup of coffee total and one piece of pie, and promptly started talking about how there are too many Hispanic waiters in the world now. Shit, the waiter just turned around to go get that pie and coffee. What the hell old guy? You stem your racism until you can't see their eyes? This isn't some kid you can fool with a came of peak-a-boo. Sure he has a kind of thick Mexican accent, which can be hard to understand once in a while but he was still speaking fluent english, that anyone should be able to get though. Just old white guy racism, right next to me. The waiter brings the pie, the old guy takes it with a smile and a show of “I'm not a racist, look how I tolerate a brown person bringing me food!” I was really hoping there was spit on that pie, but I knew there wouldn't be, that waiter is just cool all the time, probably had to pat up with that a rap all the time. One bite and the old bastard says it's too old. It's a goddamn chocolate cream pie! It's not going to be old for a damn month, and I'd still eat the dame thing if there wasn't any mold, or roaches, crawling all over it. Maybe. The waiter takes it back, and the old bastard asks about their fruit pies instead. I've had these and they are goddamn fantastic. Hell I ordered a blueberry muffin, cold because they're better that way, but the place is known for their pie more so than their goddamn waffles. The waiter asks if he would like it á la mode. I have always understood that term meaning, heat the pie, slam a scoop of ice cream on there for good measure. The guy said yes. I clearly heard him say yes. I was paying attention now because, this old fucker just sent back a perfectly good pie of fucking chocolate cream pie after one bite, they had to throw that away. This pisses me off. Mind you, I'm sitting there with my book, Children of Dune, sitting in my hand while I'm eating my cakes. And I hadn't turned the page since he tossed that pie. The next slice comes out. The guy didn't want the ice cream. Now I'm starting to lose my shit over this guy's dessert. At least he didn't take a bite this time, and it goes back into the back so that the waiter can eat it hopefully. Then the next slice comes out, I can see the steam coming off the damn thing, the old fucker says his cheerful pain in the ass clearly racist thank you and eats two bites of it. He has the nerve to complain about it being heated up. “Berry pie is always better cold. Everyone knows this.” Goddamn it. I decided to give my personal opinion about this subject, to everyone in the place. I said, quite loudly, toward one of the other waiters, but not clearly looking at anyone specific, and knowing that my waiter (Same as Old Fuck's) could hear. “You know these pancakes are fantastic, the eggs were great, my water has the perfect amount of ice, and I know this muffin is going to be great. If I had ordered pie, I'd be happy. IT'S MOTHERFUCKING PIE!” I am paraphrasing that, because all I can remember is that last bit that is in bold all caps. I never turned toward those people, but I know everyone heard me because I remember hearing an under the breath voice say my name in shock. That was probably going to get back to my mom. The waiter and the busser both stood there not knowing really how to react, or were waiting for Old Fucker to challenge me to a duel to defend his honor or something, so I asked for a refill of my water, in my normal calm voice. And went back to the adventures of Leto II and his dealings with the Sandworms and  Fremen on Arrakis.

The old couple must have finished their pie because I didn't pay them anymore attention and finally noticed they were gone when my bill was brought to me. Now, there's a local's discount at this place when you sign the ticket. I never really pay attention to the cost anymore, I know how much everything is pretty much priced. But when I got the thing back to sign for the credit card usage, I noticed the price. $3 and change. My pancakes along are normally around six dollars and then there should have been another three dollars for that kick ass muffin (if you make muffins at home, this is probably about the same size as four of them combined, well worth that three bucks). I went through the little pile of papers to find the ticket I signed, and there was the correct price that I knew I should have had, with an added little hand scribbled note of “Thank you” which was not on there when I signed it. I left that difference between the two as a tip. This is why it's my favorite restaurant.