So, one of my favorite restaurants is being ruined by an old lady with cancer…
I should probably give some context.
You see, I love eating at small, local, family-owned stores. And that’s because if I were to get food-poisoning, it’s waaaayyyyy easier to win the law-suit. Turns out, Bob and Karen can’t really afford a good lawyer while operating in the red – Support your local businesses guys, so people like me don’t ruin them.
One of my personal favorites is this breakfast joint near where I live; let’s say it’s called Hot Stacks. In Hot Stacks they serve the most deliciously unhealthy American breakfast you can imagine – Some people think their biscuits are a little too doughy, but I kinda like doughy – My wife and I made going to Hot Stacks sort of a tradition, because marriage is hard, and we want to die young.
The whole place is operated by a really industrious American family whose skin color is irrelevant to this story. It’s actually pretty cool to see three generations of the same family working in the same business with each other and for each other. Setting aside the potential lawsuit winnings, that’s my favorite reason to go there. It’s a shame we don’t see it more often. Maybe it’s your fault, maybe you should eat more local like I do, because I’m better than you.
Anyway, the oldest employee of Hot Stacks is the grandma and matriarch of the family; they call her Momma. Ain’t that precious? Momma is kind and sweet and a couple of months ago she decided to go and get herself some pancreatic cancer. Which is fine.
Hot Stacks decided that in order to help Momma with her chemotherapy, they would raise money by putting out a jar with Momma’s face on it, for customers to deposit their donations. Which is also fine.
Momma decided to keep working throughout the entirety of her chemotherapy. To some, that is an admirable and brave effort, but some might be wrong. Because that is not fine.
I think it’s bad for business, and quite frankly, a little hubristic from this lady. Seriously, tone it down Momma, you’re no Alex Trebek.
Look, just raise the money harder, hike up the food prices, do a fucking car wash, literally anything else. But please, don’t let this dying old lady serve Sunday breakfast. Like, gross. The last thing anyone needs is to be reminded of their own mortality over chicken and waffles. What are you doing Hot Cakes? Damn.
First of all, she is short, thin, and frail. Her skin is pale and it clings to her bones not entirely unlike a used condom clings to a flaccid penis. That is to say, she is rather unappealing to look at.
Secondly, she is hard of hearing, which means she fucks up our orders all the time. My wife is vegetarian. We went over to Hot Stacks one day and she ordered an omelet with broccoli. Momma brought back an omelet with bacon. Aside from the first letter, those two words don’t sound that similar. But because she is at deaths door, you just know that every time you remind her of a mistake, you are also reminding her of the inevitability of time and her impending doom. So now I have to feel bad that she fucked up, and then apologize to her for her mistake, before I can even begin to correct the order.
When are they going to realize that she’s a liability?
Am I really supposed to just sit there and plaster on a goofy smile and say “This is delicious Momma! I’m totally not thinking about death at all! Can I have more doughy biscuits and gravy please?” She looks like she survives on oxygen and dust particles, is that supposed to open up my appetite?
Oh! And her hands shake. It’s horrific. This poor old ghoul presents these heavy plates on shaky-cancery hands while you hope that she doesn’t spill the food and launch you both into the most depressingly awkward exchange you’ll ever have. And that’s how you start your Sunday.
Lando Writes Sometimes 