(She refers to this as "my waitress job, if you will").
My waitress is named Norma.
My waitress said they had sold out for the week.
My waitress was clueless, but I ate an excellent, properly chewy hanger steak with frites; at the next table, a tuna salad looked good.
My waitress sat right down in my booth to chat about the menu, describing the (excellent) threesome of house-made salsas at my disposal and letting me know that the food was not what I might think.
My waitress, at 4 30 on a muggy afternoon, was worn out with a rode hard and hung up wet look.
My waitress endorsed my selections — a smoked-duck noodle soup and fried radish cakes with XO sauce — with a welcome enthusiasm.
My waitress, relating that a nearby ersatz Colonial revival mansion belonged to owners of a large crab house in Ocean City, Md., told me she'd heard that the bottom of its swimming pool was decorated with little crab silhouettes.
My waitress, a young Frenchwoman called Marie, talks me through the form: so big are Sally Lunn's buns – readers may forgive the 'Allo 'Allo -style innuendo – thAllo -styleone constinnuendo full serving.
My waitress, skeptical when I ordered both a pastrami sandwich and a macaroni and cheese, gave me that reproving look I remember well from childhood, the one that said, "You and I both know you are never going to finish all that". Sure enough, I left half the meal untouched, then ordered a huge dessert.
My waitress all but sat in my lap and asked my life story while I was eating.
