San Diego - Bread Crumbs 3

"Order in. Table 6" Bill said as he handed the order ticket over to Tony. Lobster rolls as appetizers, two orders of Bouillabaisse as the main course.

"Order in. Fire an order of lobster rolls," Tony shouted into the kitchen.
"Firing an order of lobster rolls," Bart responded to no one in particular.
Now, it was Tony's job to wait for the order of Lobster rolls and take them to table 6. Then, he would watch, as the restaurant patrons would eat their lobster rolls. When they were nearly finished, he would shout "fire table 6" into the kitchen, and Bart would know to start cooking the Lobster Rolls. All part of the grand master plan.
On a good night, the crew would run like a brand new Mustang. The waiter would take the order, give it to Tony, who would send it to the kitchen, and then when the food was prepared, set it on the table. Repeat.

On bad nights, the crew was more like an '85 Chevy Celebrity, struggling down the street, reeking of alcohol and trash, sputtering mechanical obscenities to the gods above.

Tonight, Tony decided, was not a good night. Bart was in a terrible mood, and Tony himself, felt aloof and distanced from the situation. Maybe it was because Scott had made him look at that dreadful painting.

Tony's stomach murmured and he headed towards the waiter's station. He set down a small black plate and poured olive oil and balsamic onto it. Then, he reached for the breadbasket and found a small piece of sourdough. He ripped off a small piece and dipped it into the black plate.

What must he look like to the restaurant patrons, standing there and eating a piece of bread while they dined on lobster rolls and bouillabaisse? He shoved the piece of bread into his mouth and glanced towards the door.

The hostess was leading a young couple towards the bar. The man in front was wearing a black, silky shirt that accentuated his toned upper body. He had dark hair and a strong, angular jaw.
The woman behind him was wearing a small black dress with a dangerously low neckline. Her ample cleavage jiggled as she walked towards her seat at the bar.

"Lobster rolls."

What was it that had transpired upon conception to bless this man with so much, Tony wondered to himself.

"Lobster rolls."

To walk the earth in such a manner, with streams of grace fluttering about.

"Lobster rolls."

To be able to find women like sheep.

"GET YOUR FUCKING LOBSTER ROLLS!" Tony whirled about, stunned by Bart's ferocity laden statement.

"What the hell are you waiting for?"

Tony shook his head slightly, murmured a feeble apology, and took the lobster rolls to table 6. An elderly couple was seated at the table and they both smiled at Tony as he put the lobster rolls down.

"How are you doing tonight sir? Maam?" Tony asked as he placed his arms behind his back.

"Fine, thank you." The elderly man said, and then turned to the plate of lobster rolls.

"These look delicious," said the elderly woman.

"Yes they certainly do," responded the man.

Tony smiled at the couple and walked back towards the kitchen and his countertop.

Bart was busy yelling "andale, andale" at Alphonso, so Tony walked back to his bread. As he slowly dipped the bread into the plate, he again gazed over at the young, attractive couple, allowing his eyes to linger on the girl's cleavage.

She was laughing as he conveyed what must have been a witty and intelligent anecdote to her. He must be talking about something that had happened at work, how he had slipped up during a presentation to the shareowners, or maybe, or how he had allowed a Freudian slip of the tongue to emerge as he pleaded his case in front of the jury.
"Ladies and gentleman, I beckon you to examine this case objectively. My client was married to her husband for three years and the prenuptial agreement stipulates that she deserves half of what was his! Now, this is just the tit of the iceberg."

"Oh, I can't believe you said that!"

No, he was too stylishly dressed to be an attorney. He must be a model, or maybe he was a successful painter.

Tony looked down at his black plate and sopped up the last bit of oil and vinaigrette with his finger. It was almost time to pick up the bouillabaisse.

Saturday - 11:00 PM

"Here you go," Bill said as he handed the five-dollar bill to Tony. It had been a relatively slow evening and Tony did not expect much money for his services, but this seemed ridiculous.

The way it worked was that the waiter would receive all of the tips, and then "tip out" the busboy, the kitchen, the bartender, and Tony the food bitch. Tony should receive 10% of what the waiter made, which usually wasn't a whole lot. The thing was, that since no records were taken, the waiter usually had a great deal of creative flexibility with regard to the definition of 10%.

"Thanks Bill."

"So, what are you doing tonight?" Bill asked.

Tony hated this question. "I don't know, I might go out downtown or something," he said.

"Oh yeah, where downtown?" Bill questioned innocently. Except Tony did not entirely feel as though Bill was purely motivated by a sense of friendly curiosity. For Tony, the question's Bill asked inevitably contained a sense of arrogant superiority.

"I don't know," Tony began, desperately thinking of names of places that were downtown. "Maybe to the Casbah."

"Oh yeah?" Bill responded. "Who is playing there tonight?"

Tony had to think for a moment. He didn't really know who was playing there. Truth be told, he didn't even know that it was a place were people played.

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