Amanda had headed to the other side of the restaurant and hovered over her table. Her pink tie, covered in a pattern with tiny white crosses embroidered into the silk, hung dangerously close to the olive oil dish. She addressed her table of four, two couples. The first couple on her left side had to be in their seventies by now; the man sat hunched over and continuously chewed his cud. His fat, purple lips grinded painfully together, but at a sideways angle, lubricated only by what came from the cud turning tumultuously in the throat below. His eyelids drooped; they had given up to the endless fight of gravity and their capillaries exposed red and purple lines. The woman, perhaps ten years younger, seemed weighted down by so many ounces of gold and limitless karats of diamonds. Her scrawny vein-ridden arms sat folded neatly on the table, while a shawl covered her shoulders. Of course she had thinning but well curled short hair but close to the head, and just a dash of blue shadow about her eyelids.
The couple that sat directly across from them in the booth looked at ease. They were probably in their late forties to early fifties. The man had an expensive light blue polo shirt on to cover his small gut, a leather braided belt that connected with a clanging, metal coverlet, which held up khaki golfing shorts. His hair had just become frail, and he probably cherished every hair that remained peeping out from his reddened scalp. His nose was globular and swollen, a fact most gin drinkers beheld. He had a subtle sunglasses tan from being “at the holes” too often, especially on Fridays, when his chiropractic office closed early at two. His wife was blonde and drenched in too much perfume. Her nails were manicured by a woman name Choi, who worked at the most prestigious Vietnamese spa in town, named aptly, Happy Nail. The woman wore an enormous diamond encased in platinum that hung between two flawlessly proportioned breasts – the work of Dr. M. Goldenstein, plastic surgeon and golfing buddy to her husband. The chiffon shirt she wore to cover them was faintly diaphanous which paired well with her personality. Amanda more than understood that this woman wouldn’t be eating much tonight, or any night for that matter. No, she would stick to either her wine, a Flirtini, or a combination of the two.
“Good evening folks! How are you doing this fine Friday night?” began Amanda.
They all nodded and the older man who was too hunched over to look at her muttered something that seemed like, “We are all doing fine.”
“Excellent. Can I start you of with a glass of wine, perhaps a bottle from our very selective wine list? How about a martini, ma’am?” she directed the message to the woman with fake breasts. “I’ll start with the ladies first. For you, ma’am?” She turned her head to the older woman who could barely lift her neck to address her waitress, due to the onslaught of precious metals.
“I’ll have a glass of the Veramiente sauvignon blanc, oh, and a glass of water.”
“And for you, ma’am?” She now directed her attention again towards Fake Breasts.
“Me? Hmm. I am thinking about either a white zinfandel or an apple martini. What do you think?”
What Amanda actually thought was this: This woman knows nothing about wine because, one, she is thinking about drinking a white zinfandel with… well with probably a half a meatball, if that. Secondly, she knows nothing about her age because she is also considering a martini that high school girls drink when they have busty little sleepovers. Amanda wanted to tell this woman that her body was, as they say, a temple, and that she shouldn’t be putting a drop of liquor in her already emaciated and adulterated blood stream to begin with. Who knows what the effect of saline stuffed between muscle and major organs added with alcohol could be. Instead, she replied:
“Go with the zinfandel ma’am, its light and probably sweeter than the martini in comparison.” Plus, the glass of wine was almost double what the martini in price.
“I’ll go with that, then, thank you.”
“Gentleman?” coaxed Amanda.
The drooping man said, after swallowing a little bit of cud though as not to spit any out, “I’ll have a Manhattan… bourbon.”
“Excellent choice, sir. And for you, sir?”
“Let’s see… I’ll have a gin martini, on the rocks. Make it as dry as possible. And tell your bartender over there not to be shy, m’kay, sweetie?”
Amanda nodded and loathed this man.
“Alright, folks, I’ll get those drinks out as soon as possible. And, of course, some of our fresh bread.”
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