The Slow Canadian

It’s a pretty busy Thursday afternoon, when the mild mannered man in a checkered, short sleeve button down shirt sits down. He is a bit heavy and has a thick greying mustache with head hair to match. He wore square glasses, and looked like a math teacher, or a not too successful accountant.

“How many people?” I ask, hoping it’s more than just him.

“It’s just me.” He says.

Shit.
He has a familiar beaten look to him. For some reason I know that this guy is not there to play.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I’ll start with a Matzoh ball soup.” He says, reading the menu intently.

“Great.” I say, and hurry to get this dude his soup, so he can get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

I get him his soup.

‘What else can I get you?’

‘I eat very slowly’ He says.
‘Can you bring me another bowl of this when I’m done?’

‘Sure’ I say.

This dude is gonna slowly eat soup alone at a six top? Jeez.

I monitor him while I’m working, and bring him his second bowl of soup with one bite remaining in the first one.

He looks at me with a death stare.

‘How aboot you bring me the second bowl, when I’m done with the first.’ He reveals himself.

‘Are you Canadian?’ I ask.

‘Yup.’ He answers.
Fucking Canadians…

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  • tesla

    If you weren’t such a lousy waiter, you wouldn’t have to grovel for better tips.