This girl loves to eat and doesn’t like anything to stand in the way of her and any sort of dipping sauce.
So when I went to lunch with my friend Scissorhands (not her real name) and her mom, I was there for the company, but I was also there for the food!
I arrived and we began chit chatting and catching up, all the while pretending as if I was interested in our conversation and not the appetizers at the table next to. (Would it kill them to offer their neighbor a bite of their dip?)
We figured out our orders and the overly perky waitress came back to take down our requests. My friends are healthy and skinny, but I love them despite these obvious flaws.
They both ordered healthy dishes, and the waitress then turned her attention to me. I could tell she was rooting for me to order something healthy too. I could see it in her face.
It’s probably the same look I have when I root for the addict on Intervention to stay away from the back alley heroin deal, knowing full well they will find themselves giving blow jobs in a garage for a couple bucks to score some “h.”
Much like the heroin junkee, I sucomed to my addiction and ordered a pizza. I like to think it was a healthy pizza, as it had olive oil, mushrooms and goat cheese on it.
But I suppose calling a pizza healthy is like calling this blog funny. We all want the statement to be true, but it just isn’t.
The waitress looked at me with disappointment in her eyes. “Would you like a salad with that?” she asked, hopeful I would agree to eat at least one thing that day that wasn’t filled with carbs and trans fat.
“Um, no thanks,” I said, glaring at her and wondering why she cared so much about my health. Obviously I was a woman who knew what she wanted, and I wanted a crispy crust on my fatty pizza.
Plus, I always feel stupid ordering a salad at a restaurant.
I feel like the waiter is thinking “Yeah, like this ONE salad is going to help you lose the 100 pounds you need to drop. Just give up fatty and get the lasagna.”
The waitress walked away quickly. I can only assume the get up in her step was because she knew my cholesterol must be high based upon my eating choices, and she wanted to get my order in before I died and she failed to get her tip.
I was on to her game.
I patiently waited for my food, performing an ocular pat-down of every item that came out of the kitchen.
My stomach was growling and I had a hard time focusing on the conversation over the sound of my stomach eating itself.
Finally, the food arrived. Well, some of the food. Apparently the waitress felt like torturing me some more, so she brought out the food my friends ordered, and left me to sit and wait, salivating at the prospect of my food being so close, yet so far away.
I waited for her to say something spiteful, like “Dance, monkey, dance,” but instead she smiled at me and said “Yours takes a little longer and will be out shortly.”
Translation: I’m going to make you wait for your food, as it’s probably the only time today you will have an increase in heart rate. (She wasn’t wrong.)
After what felt like a lifetime, but was probably only 3 minutes, the waitress brought out my pizza. I couldn’t tell if it was what I ordered or not because the entire pizza was covered in arugula. Seriously. It was covering the entire carb-loaded plate of goodness.
Why would this woman douse my pizza in tree leaves? I didn’t understand it. I considered asking her for dressing for my impromptu salad, but was afraid she would come back to the table wielding veggies and a fruit cup, so I refrained.
Despite its lack of dressing (and lack of anything fried or flavorful), it wasn’t half bad. I mean, it wasn’t good enough for me to continue eating it, but it wasn’t horrible either. Maybe that waitress was onto something with the healthy eating.
I would give that some thought as I rolled through the Dairy Queen drive thru later for dessert.
I pushed the leaves aside and began devouring the pizza goodness. After a while, the lettuce became so overwhelming that I considered eating it to make more room for the pizza on my plate.
I took a bite of “salad” and figured it would be the best way to spite the waitress, as I was sure she wasn’t expecting me to eat it. In fact, I was confident she had a running bet with the dishwasher in the back as to whether I would touch the leafy greens. Well she was about to lose her $5 bet to Manuel.
I stabbed some lettuce and shoved it in my mouth before I could reconsider my spiteful eating.