Archive | September 7, 2010

The Roving Pickle

The following is something I wrote for my writer’s group that meets once a week. The prompt for this week was “A Restaurant Story”. Since nothing particularly funny or interesting has happened to me in a restaurant, I decided to write about this instead. The names have been changed to protect the innocent–or something. The story is true. Pickle Lovers beware!

This isn’t a story of something that happened to me, but the story is real. Back a few years ago, my friend Jon went to his favorite restaurant for a Reuben sandwich. One thing Jon liked the most about the Reuben platter was the fact it came with chips and a slice of dill pickle. Jon really liked dill pickles and this place had the best ones in town.

Well, he sat down at the table and the waitress came over to take his order. She was new, in fact, she told him, it was her first day and he was her first customer. Thrilled at the idea of serving her first customer, she went out of her way to make sure everything was perfect. So when she came back to report that the kitchen was completely out of pickles, she was upset. Jon, though disappointed, told her to put some coleslaw on the plate instead, and he’d make due.

The waitress, whose name was Sandy, brought out his Reuben. As usual, it was perfect. He prepared to take his first bite and Sandy came out with a huge smile on her face and a giant pickle on a plate.

“I found one! The cook was saving this for his snack, but I convinced him I needed it for a customer instead. So, here’s your pickle, sir! I hope you enjoy it.” She set the pickle on the table.

Let’s go back a few seconds…. In the kitchen, Sandy did indeed find a pickle. Instead of a spear, it was an entire, huge dill pickle. Excited by her find, Sandy hastened to present the procured pickle to her patron, she placed the purloined pickle on a pretty pink platter. She purveyed the pretty pink pickle platter to her patron’s perch, plucking it down with panache.

Back to the present: The pretty pink platter plunked precisely on the precipice of the table. It teetered precariously. Tipping this way and tottering that, the purloined pickle on the pretty pink platter plopped in Jon’s lap.
Surprised by the sudden appearance of the soggy cylinder, Jon jumped. Sandy, surprised herself, leaped forward to grab the vertical vegetable from her puzzled patron’s pants. Scrabbling and scratching, she grabbed repeatedly for the slippery object, diving again and again for Jon’s lap.

Laughing loudly, Jon fetched the pesky pickle, placing it again on the pretty pink platter. Realizing what she’d done, Sandy stopped, her hand hovering over Jon’s lap. In less time than it takes to tell about it, she screamed loudly and ran back into the kitchen, his booming laugh following her humiliated retreat.

After eating, Jon paid his bill, laughing again as he reflected upon the incident. Sandy was standing by the hostess as he went to the front door. Jon stopped beside her with the intention of giving her a tip. Taking a $10.00 bill from his pocket, he handed it to her with a smile.

“Thank you for the delicious meal, Sandy. Service was sublime. And by the way, you can grab for my pickle anytime.”