Bellamy's Redemption - Page 32
The waitress reappeared, setting down my wine in front of Pete and his beer in front of me. “What are you going to order?” she asked me.
“Hmm,” I said, taking another quick look at the menu to remind myself what I had chosen.
She turned to Pete. “Are you ready yet?”
“As soon as my date makes her choice,” he said politely.
“I’m ready now,” I said. “I’d like the peanut stew with…”
“With firm, cubed tofu over a bed of couscous,” she interrupted, finishing the description for me. “Got it.” She snatched my menu from me and turned back to Pete.
“I’d like the goulash,” he said.
“How original,” she said, walking away without collecting his menu.
Pete looked at me and started to laugh. “I’m sorry, Emma. I had no idea this was going to be so insane.”
“Is she one of your ex-girlfriends?” I asked, half serious, considering how crazy she was acting.
“I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“Maybe she hates infomercials?”
“That’s possible,” he said. “I once endorsed a juicer that left bits of metal in the juice. She must have gotten one of them.”
“Or perhaps this is one of those places where rude service is part of the experience?” I suggested.
“Judging from tonight, I’d agree with you, but since it’s sometimes more mediocre than bad, I think this is genuinely rotten.”
“Genuine, authentic rottenness. I like anything better when it’s real, don’t you?”
“Of course,” he said, passing me my glass of wine. He picked up his beer and raised it to me, in a toast. “To authentic rottenness,” he said.
“And to Eastern European, West African cuisine,” I said. We clinked glasses and each took a sip. He looked into my eyes when he did so; I hate when people don’t.
“It’s better than it sounds,” he promised. “Well, you’ll see, in just a little bit.”
“How did you find this place?” I asked him.
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“I passed by it for a year or so, and I thought it was somebody’s apartment who was always having a party and cooking good food. I always thought ‘I’ve got to meet those people.’ One night I was coming home and I’d had a little bit to drink, and I thought ‘I’m going for it.’ I walked right in and realized it was an actual bar. Or restaurant. Whatever this place is. I couldn’t believe I wasted all that time wondering about this place, when I could have been here, being part of it.”
“Here’s some bread,” said our waitress, reappearing with a basket. She stood before us, glaring, waiting for something. Pete and I looked at each other, unsure what was going on.
“You still have your menu?” she asked Pete, accusingly.
“Here you go,” he said, picking it up and handing it to her.
She grunted, exchanging the bread for it, and walked away. Pete and I burst into giggles.
“She isn’t real. You hired her. She’s an actress,” I said, when I stopped laughing.
“I told you, she’s real. Authentically rotten.”
“I’m glad you dragged me out here,” I said. “This is definitely better than sitting at home.”
“Your compliments are so generous,” he said.
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