Watch that Menu!

LeeAnnRubsam.com

My friend and avid fan, Ornesta Fruggenbotham, called the other day.  You remember Ornesta.  She’s the one who made guest appearances in this blog with her true-life stories about a dead brother who was really quite alive and a fond memory of a Christmas banquet served next to the bedroom clothes hamper.  Life is weird in Upper Michigan, as proved by the latest phone conversation.

“Well, hello, Ornesta!  How’s the weather in Iron Ore these days?  Has the Big Lake frozen over yet?”

“It’s cold enough to give a polar bear frostbite, I had to use a welding torch to thaw out the phone line before calling you, and an iceberg took out the Edmund Fitzgerald last Tuesday.”

“C’mon, Ornesta.  I’m smarter than that.  I’ve listened to a little Gordon Lightfoot myself, and I know how long ago that happened.  It wasn’t an iceberg, either.”

“I’m not really concerned about the temperature.  It’s a different kind of cold threat I’ve had on my mind of late.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.  I was at one of those “bottomless fries”  eateries a couple of weeks ago, and —“

“Pardon me, Ornesta.  You shouldn’t do that.  I just read about the house specialty burger — 93 whoppin’ grams of lardo and a full day’s calories — without the fries.”

“When you live this far north, you need that much grease to keep your joints oiled and moving.  But let me tell you what happened.”

“OK, shoot.”

“The guy at the next table had to sneeze, see?  And he wanted to be polite and not let fly at the woman across the table from him — which was good, ’cause it was one sloppy doozy of a sneeze!”

“Ewww.”

“No, just wait!  I’ll give you an ‘Ewww!’  He used his menu as a sneeze shield!  Germs and gook all over the picture of the chicken burger!”

“Double Ewww.”

“Now, you’ve got to THINK about this a little!  They didn’t send the menu home with him as a souvenir.  Somebody else had it in his frozen little fingers before —“

“Before the gook dried and the germs died.  I’m eating at home from now on.”

“Well, you don’t have to go to those extremes.  Just do what I did the next time I ate there.”

“Hmmm?  There’s more story coming, isn’t there.”

“I didn’t touch the menu the next time.  I asked the waitress to read it to me.”

“The whole menu?”

“Yeah, and she says, ‘Ohhh,’ in this I-am-so-sorry-for-you tone,  and then says, ‘We have Braille menus for the sight-impaired.’ 

“And I said, ‘No, there’s nothing wrong with my eyes.  It’s the germ factor, Miss.’

“And she gawks at me like I haven’t got my buttons all sewed on, so I explained about menus getting passed to innocent customers when the sneeze gook isn’t dried yet.”

“I’ll bet that impressed her.”

“Pretty much.  She scooted off to find a manager.  And pretty soon, she comes galloping back with one.   ‘Madam, I understand there is a problem with your menu,’ he says in this low, drawly voice.

“‘Not as long as I don’t have to touch it and she reads it to me,’ I replied.  ‘I don’t want to take the chance it has been sneezed on, coughed on, salivated on, or who-knows-what on.  You know, with that swine flu stuff going around, you can’t be too careful.'”

“Ornesta, didn’t you read my post about swine flu?  If you eat enough bratwurst and sauerkraut, there’s nothing to fear.”

“It might not work up here.  It’s probably just a Wisconsin cure.”

“Yeah, well, go on.”

“The guy didn’t say anything — just motions to the waitress to come with him and trots off.  I didn’t know if they were going to feed me or not.  Well, pretty soon the waitress comes back, and she’s got an accessory in her apron pocket — a quart-size can of Lysol.  And she plunks that menu down on the table, empties half a can onto it, flips it over with a slap, and empties most of the other half a can on the back side.  My eyes were fogging up, my nose was burning, and my taste buds felt like I’d swallowed a bottle of bleach.

“And then she says, ‘There!  How’s that?  Would you like me to do your water glass and your napkin for you too?’  And she lets fly with the rest of the can.  ‘Psssssst!'”

“Personally, I think I would have taken my chances with the menu-turned-sneeze-shield in all its contaminated glory.  Lysol decongesting my sinuses doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

“No, and I couldn’t really taste the burger and the bottomless fries very well that day, either.”

“Ornesta, you said I should try your method, rather than closeting myself at home to eat.  Why, after hearing what happened to you, would I want to take your advice?”

“Well, I thought it would give you something interesting to write about.”

(For more Ornesta-related adventures see Simply Ornesta! in the sidebar, under Archives.)

Salad Eaters Beware!

LeeAnnRubsam.com

The following story illustrates why it is best to
a.) avoid salad bars completely, or
b.) pray hard before the first bite.

My daughter and I decided to do lunch at the local pizza parlor.  The place was nearly devoid of human life when we sat ourselves down with our personal pizzas.  Staring at the puddles of grease atop my lunch and remembering my upcoming cholesterol test, I was having second thoughts and wishing I had opted for the salad buffet.  Not for long.

A young woman and her two offspring made entrance.  The older child, about eight I’d say, immediately sauntered over to check out the salad bar.  While Mom was busy ordering at the counter, he decided to avoid the middle man and go directly for fast food. 

While we gawked in delicious horror, he grabbed the fully-loaded chocolate pudding scoop and  shlugged ‘er all down.  Mom spotted him just as the last few drops dribbled from his chin into the pudding pot. 

“Johnny!!! Put that down!!!” 

Startled by her blood-curdling yell, Johnny’s reflexes kicked in and he did as he was told – dropped that ladle like it was a hot horseshoe. It bounced across the carpet a couple of times before Mama bounded to the rescue.  She retrieved the scooper from the floor and shoved it back into the pot, grabbed Johnny’s arm, and marched him off to their table, hissing, “I told you to stay with me!” 

Keep in mind that all the plexiglass sneeze shields in the world could not have prevented this scene, unless they had completely covered the salad counter and been secured with a padlock. 

The mom did not inform the counter people that there was a kid-contaminated pudding pot in need of some attention.  If the staff saw the incident, they did not care.  They were probably so hardened to moms screaming at their kids that they were not even curious about the cause. 

Now, I still like salad bars immensely, so I do not choose option a. (avoiding salad bars completely).  Option b. (praying hard before the first bite) is more to my liking.  But I never eat salad at that pizza parlor anymore – or anything else on their menu, either.

LeeAnnRubsam.com

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