You know when you try in vain to get a server’s attention and your words hang in the air like a smacked ass, and you hope that nobody saw your craned neck, raised finger, or expectant eyebrows?
New York City: 1/1/93, 1pm. As is often the case in such day-after circumstances, my friend Ken and I were severely hurting for food to soothe the dissonant orchestras in our stomachs. After searching about six blocks while freezing our asses off, we ducked into a little dive called the Viennese Gourmet Deli, only to encounter a harried Russian waitress barreling towards us, waving greasy menus and yelling, “Coffee, tea, coffee, tea?!”
This is how Ken described her: “She wore a shit-brown polyester uniform that had slightly flared bottoms that strained to cover her frumpy, scuffed-up white shoes and her knees that pointed slightly inward. Her hair was straight, mousy brown, and pulled back in an unflattering fashion. Dry bangs parted in the middle partially covered her rather heavy eyebrows. Her complexion was pale bordering on ruddy. Her jowls were heavy and her nose pugged. I don’t think she knew any English other than restaurant English. She was the only waitress for all 12 tables.”
The stressed-out waitress threw our beverages on the table and took off running, so when Ken raised his head and opened his mouth to request Sweet ‘N Low, she was already gone in a cloud of cheap perfume and hair pins. Ken’s chagrined expression cracked me up. The food, when it finally arrived, was disgusting: oily omelettes, greasy potatoes, gritty pancakes, and cold/burnt toast. At this point, we were so hungry that we didn’t care.
Our bodies were giddy to absorb these calories, so we started to get a little slap happy. Ken jokingly mumbled sotto voce, “Um, excuse me, do you think I could have another cup of coffee and TWO more packets of jelly?” I laughed, imagining that once again the waitress wouldn’t break stride to pay him any heed. Instead, she would simply continue to run around like a maniac, bump customers’ arms, write illegible checks, and leave food in the pickup window for over 5 minutes. (I timed it.)
As the conversation became more and more unhinged, Ken and I started to riff on ridiculous questions that we would pose to the waitress if only she would pause long enough for us to utter them. Ken asked, “Exactly how many calories does your lox & onion omelette contain?” I responded, “What do you think of NAFTA?” Ken cackled his approval and there was no turning back. We were on a roll, so this is where I’ll start numbering.
1. What do you think of NAFTA?
2. Is childbirth really the most incredible pain a person can endure?
3. Excuse me, do you write poetry?
4. Do you have a picture of your family? Can we see it?
5. What do you think of the pace of the free market mechanism in the former Soviet Union—too fast or too slow?
6. If I were a woman, would I look good in scarves?
7. Haven’t I seen you on TV?
8. What’s the difference between saturated and unsaturated fats?
9. Do you think I should gain or lose weight?
10. What position do you prefer in lovemaking?
11. If I were a wax model, which dessert in the rotating display case would most closely resemble my complexion?
12. Would you go up to the counter and tell that cute guy that Mark wants to marry him?
13. Do you know where I can get some really good X?
14. Is Russian toilet paper really like sandpaper?
15. Bottom line: How unsafe IS unprotected oral sex?
16. Do you think I should get a new muffler for my car or just wait until spring?
17. How would you explain variations in the galaxies if the Big Bang Theory was a uniform phenomenon?
18. Who do you think will be Time’s Man of the Year?
19. Do you think Woody really had sex with his adopted daughter in front of the other children?
20. Ummm, could we have the check?
P.S. Apparently, this greasy spoon is still there. Check out a recent review on Yelp:
http://www.yelp.com/biz/viennese-gourmet-deli-new-york
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