Cast
A disgruntled diner. Costume couldn’t be finer.

Scene
Hey.

So, this May, it’s the sweetie’s birthday so we go away for a night. She’d mentioned this fancy place with an ace reputation she’s been impatient to try. I barely even look at it but I go ahead and book it ’cause she’s a foodie and I’d have to be fruity to want a moody cutie. (leaning in) And miss out on the booty.

I call the owner to give our dietary preference. Exchange salutations. “Could I trouble you?” I beg. “Veg with no egg. No pigs, crustaceans or bird ovulations.” He responds with great deference. Says it’s okay. “That’s three hundred bucks, not including the stay.”

Fuck a duck. Three hundred… (swallows a complaint) hey, the sweetie’s birthday. That might be several days’ wages but I’m sage as so I don’t delay. “I’ll pay,” I say.

All sorted. Hooray.

The day comes round and we drive down to the country town the restaurant’s at. Did I mention it has not one but two hats? Two hats. That’s the equivalent of like two stars more than the best hotel I’ve been to. We’re seen to at reception and move through to our room.

Our room, y’all. “Small” isn’t quite right; this tomb’s so tight the bed’s flush against both the close and the far wall. The bathroom’s pretty big though. I guess that’s… well I don’t even know how to spin that into a positive.

Anyway, too tough. We dump our stuff and head to the town. Bought a cake or three at the bakery we found, bound to pound them down later. Discovered this place caters for a slower pace. Antiquities, knick knacks, bric-a-brac, soap… don’t want to sound like a moping hater but I’m hoping later in life, when the thrill of the rat race dies, I never buy a human-sized apple with crap all appeal made of rusty steel and frayed rope.

We stop at a bottle shop. “Can I grab a white, mate?” I’m not a lightweight but I have the tastebuds of a teen, by which I mean I like it sweet. We take our wine and head back to the main street. “Let’s go eat our meal,” I say. We do consider strolling the other way but a touch of sleet comes down to seal the deal.

We go back but take the wrong road. If I was into reading signs, I’d say this didn’t bode so well but hell if I’d read the actual signs we wouldn’t have gone the wrong way, eh.

We make our way back and dress up fancy, looking so handsome that if we got kidnapped it’d be one pricey ransom. Head to the restaurant next door, sure we’ll adore each morsel which we pass from claw to jaw. Cross the floor and talk to the maître d’. The waiter she calls over takes us to our seats. “Welcome to our venue. Please, have a menu.”

I open it up but this menu’s not ours. “Don’t want to start any rows, but I asked for no cows, fowls or anything that howls.”

“Oh yes,” says the waitress, whose badge says her name’s Tess. “We know your requirements, but I confess there’s no menu for what you’re eating. Rest assured none of it was bleating.”

Hey, I do the vegetarian puns!...

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