The French

I love dreaming. If only because it is the once place I can act out my social deviance without recourse. Last night was a perfect example.

My family was at a restaurant in France. We were a slightly large group (about 7) so we were spread out over two tables. It was probably around 3 in the afternoon, we were the only customers there.


Enter The Waitress. Our waitress was the epitome of a disgruntled employee. Perhaps it was because it was nearly time for her to get off work when our party showed up, perhaps it was because the rest of the waitstaff was either playing cards in the back or sleeping in a sink full of warm water, (And no, this is not just conjecture. I saw it later on in the dream.) whatever the case she was annoyed with our presence and made no effort to hide it.

As we sat and waded through the extensive menu she slipped to the back where she stayed for an extended period of time returning for brief seconds to get the orders of those who "knew what they wanted" and ignoring those who had questions. "Excuse me, what's in the...." my Mom began. And she left. "Oh my," said Maum. I found something beginning to boil within me. This woman was rude. To my Maum. Not o.k.

When she came breezing back in I looked around at my family waiting calmly and expectantly for service and being completely ignored. You shouldn't say it Summer, conscience said, albeit quietly. I ignored her.

"You know," I said, "You probably would have gotten a really nice tip if you weren't such a Bitch." A fork dropped and I looked up to see Morm, Porp, and Michael staring at me with mouths agape and slightly amused expressions on their faces. Oops, I thought. Filter failure.  The Waitress paled and raced to the kitchen. A second thought occurred to me. I probably should have waited to say that until we had our food. 


What had I done? I don't say things like that to waitresses! I felt strangely empowered. I had chewed out a waitress. What else could I do‽ 


Now I don't know exactly what possessed me to do what I did next, maybe it was because The Waitress didn't answer any of our questions about the menu, maybe it was because I was nervous she was going to spit in my food, maybe I was just power tripping, but whatever the reason I decided to go into the kitchen and talk to the chef. Without asking for permission. 


So there I went, past the Maitre d', past the waitstaff, past random busboys curled up snoozing in the dishwashing sinks full of warm water, and up to the chef. He was lovely. Evidently we were suddenly in Russia, or it was really cold in the kitchen because Mr. Chef/Baker man was wearing a long furry coat.
I asked him if he would mind me hanging around for awhile because I was nervous about The Waitress. He told me to have a seat and look through his cook books. Long story short I learned a lot about cooking, found out that he made his own pasta, and forgot all about my mean waitress.

The end.