Je-tu present: Dinner Theater Blog
A one-act farce
by Abez A. Rat
Garcon: Good evening Madame, welcome to Chez du Rat trop Paresseux pour Cuisiner. Ey-yam Guy de Maupassant, and I vill be your vaiter tonight. ‘ow may I be of service to you?
Me: I’m hungry, you got eats?
Garcon: (kissing his fingertips) Oh Madame! Tonight ve ‘ave ze chef speshal…le Boeuf de Stewed de Gelatinous Froid, served with le Morceau Singulier de Pain de France with a glass of our finest le Café de Tepid.
Me: (grabs fork with one hand and spoon in the other, drools expectantly on table cloth) Uh, ok, whatever that means…I’m ready to punch a new hole in my belt…bring-it-on!
(The three-course meal arrives, carried at shoulder-level by three French waiters in matching tuxedos. The table is laid before me with much pomp and ceremony.)
Garcon: (Lifting the lids from the silver platters) Madame, bon appetit.
Me: (sputters) But…but…this is…
Garcon: Yesterday’s beef stew, ze last piece of ze French bread and a cup of cold caffe you left on ze table before you went to work?
Me: Yeah! I had this for lunch too, what gives?
Garcon: Madame, Chez du Rat trop Paresseux pour Cuisiner serves only what you have made. If you didn’t make it before you went to work, zen it won’t have appeared when you return. Surely Madame knew zis?
Me: (dropping forehead into hands mournfully) I know, I know, I should’ve stopped by Chez Daddy on the way home and picked up a pizza.
Garcon: Oui, do zat, and bring us one too, d’accord? Ve are ‘ongry too.
(here the remaining tuxedoed waiters prod me with eating implements until I run screaming off the stage in the direction of my father’s restaurant. )
Ok, I et my yesterday’s stew. Some things, like lentils, curry and haleem, improve with age. Stew is not one of them. But I digress. I’m back from work and happy to be home again. I don’t know why, but riding in a taxi is mentally…umm…taxing to me. You sit there for the whole trip saying nothing to the driver, and the tense silence is not unlike the uncomfortable pauses in conversation you have when there are relatives over that you don’t really want to talk to.
I haven’t had too terribly fascinating a day, ergo this short and uninteresting blog. What can I say?
Garcon: (elbowing his way into my soliloquy) You say, C’est La Vie!
Me: (mashing his mustached face back under the stage curtain) Ukhruj min huna!
(enter three French waiters brandishing baguettes)
Waiter 1: You mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!
Waiter 2: Be gone filthy English pig-dog!
Waiter 3: I blow my nose at you!
Me: (Retreating under numerous baguette-blows) Run away! (I make it to the end of the stage, just out of reach of the flailing baguettes. Here I catch my breath and turn towards the camera for the last time.) And now (pant pant) the one and only thing of worth that you will read on my blog; the Islamic quote of the day, “Allah does not have mercy on that person who has no mercy on other people.” (takes stage bow)