NON- DELUXE

Breakfast time. It’s 10:28 and I don’t know what to order. Before leaving my car, I have decided on French toast. It just so happens I see on Donnie’s Kitchen window the weekly special- Tuesday until 10:30-French toast $3.95. I’ll have to eat my breakfast before I get the check to see if the waitress charges $3.95 or $5.95. I know I made the time okay. If I don’t get the lower price, the manager will learn what a banshee scream is.

The place is not busy as usual. I count 10 customers including me, 4 wait staff. The cook must be twiddling his thumbs. 2 young, dark haired waitresses are sitting on a bench near the front door, their mouths going in unison, a mile a minute. I seat myself and wait for attention. An elderly man comes down my row, pushing a walker. It is difficult for him to move the straight backed wooden chair so he can put the walker away. I get up to help him while the talkers talk. As long as I am standing, I go over to the girls and ask, ‘Do you work here?’ ‘Yeah,’ they reply.’ ‘Then why not get to work? I’d like some service, please.’ They give me dirty looks and go in.

Donnie, his back to me, is at the grill, scraping some hot dog grease into a coffee can. I tap on the counter and he looks around. ‘Are you blind? Your 2 waitresses have ignored me and the man with the walker. Not that I need the menu, but nobody has bothered to give me one. No wonder your business is falling off.’ Did he ask my opinion? No. But I give it anyhow and sit down.

The smaller of the two girls approaches me, smiles sweetly (falsely). Maybe she saw me talk to Donnie. Her name, embroidered in red on her yellow blouse collar, is Anne. ‘Anne. I don’t need a menu. Give me French toast, not too dark.’ ‘Want powdered sugar?’ ‘No thanks. Just low cal syrup and a cup of hot decaf coffee, black.’ Anne disappears. Her former confidant is taking the old man’s order at last. A few customers come in, replacing those leaving who have survived Donnie’s breakfast. My order arrives. ‘Anne, you forgot the syrup. I’d like it before my order is cold.’ It comes and the toast is brick hard, so dry the syrup won’t seep thru, but I manage to eat just the inside of one slice, push it aside and ask for another hot cup of the then cold coffee. One sip and I believe Anne is trying to poison me. It is terrible, maybe from yesterday’s unwashed pot. I’ve had it, call for my check and look at the total. Egads. Darn if it doesn’t have the regular $5.99 price. ‘ I wiggle my finger at Anne and she walks over quickly. ‘Isn’t this Tuesday?’ I ask. ‘Yes.’ ‘While you were up front talking with your friend, didn’t you see the big sign in the window, ‘Tuesday special until 10:30, French toast $3.99? You charged me $5.99.’ With no apology or explanation she takes my check to Donnie, who okays an adjustment.

Anne comes back to me, hands me a new slip of paper with the $2 overcharg credited. For the first time I can ever remember, I leave no tip, don’t feel guilty at all.

What I do leave is Donnie’s, with no intention of returning ever. I make better French toast. Doesn’t everyone?