We walked in the door at 11:50 in hopes of scoring a good seat. A popular pub for the corporate lunch crowd… The perky (but annoying) Russian hostess smiles at us
“Hi how are you today? Just the two of you?”
“Yes. And can we grab a booth please?”
She tilts her head, pouts and looks at me sympathetically “Well actually I can’t give you a booth, sorry. Those are reserved for parties with 3 or more people!”
Her head returns to it’s normal position, she sticks her chest out and her eyes light up as if she’s had some fucking epiphony “But I can give you a half booth?!”
(“Did I fucking ask for a “half booth?”) I thought to myself as I look around at all of the empty booths in the pub.
“Fine whatever!” I say
She escorts us to one of these “half-booths” where we take our seat and I look at J and say “holy seat Nazis”
He laughs, puts on a German accent and says “NO BOOTH FOR YOU!”
The waitress comes and we order a couple of lime vodka tonics (which are virtually non-detectable on your breath). This way when we go back to work it won’t be apparent that we’ve been getting sauced on our lunch hour.
A group of fashionably-impaired corporate drones come and sit down at the table next to us, one of them rocking the feathered claw look!
The waitress with one eye (the other hidden behind her c.1988 layered hair) comes back to take our order.
“What can I get you?”
“I’ll take the burger” J says
“And I’ll take the veggie wrap, no mushrooms” I say as I hand her the menus
She leaves, and J and I proceed to discuss fashion of the 80s and how banana-lips and fly-eyes were rampant… As were bleached blonde feathered do’s and leather tassels. The conversation obviously inspired by the table next to us!
The one eyed waitress returns
“Sorry, apparently you can’t order the veggie wrap with no mushrooms. It’s a package deal” She says artificially.
I raise an eyebrow and look at J… At this point, I feel like giving the hail Hitler salute… But I don’t, and instead ask for the menu again so I can choose something else.
After our meal (and two lime vodka tonics) we go up to the bar to get the bill.
“Hey can we just grab our bill please?” I ask
“Sorry, you’re going to have to talk to your server. I am a bartender.” she says coldly with a holier than though “I’m the fucking drink master extraordinaire” attitude.
Funny, because our server is nowhere to be found… Perhaps her c.1988 layered hair has now rendered her completely blind and she is having trouble locating her customers. She’s probably crawling around on the pub floor somewhere dodging Clarks and Wedge shoes.
Eventually I see her and get our bill… We pay, and get the fuck outta there before they start rounding up the customers and force feeding them the daily specials.