Friday I received an unexpected visit at the restaurant wherein I am employed. I was performing a libation of water for a table when I heard a voice behind me: "Can we have [smurf's real name] as our server?"
The hostess replied jovially, "Sure. What's your name?"
"Gravy," came the response. "Gravy" is the moniker by which his associates refer to him in real life.
Soon Gavy and Gravy's lady had been deposited in my section. The future Mrs. Gravy is the relief society president in my erstwhile ward, so I conversed with her about the matter of our mutual acquaintance, Rose. More on that to follow in subsequent entries, dear blog.
At the end of the meal, I processed Gravy's credit card and returned it to them. Gravy wrote "Tip on table!" on the slip of paper, signed it, and returned it to me immediately. When next I approached the table, I found that the duo had absconded.
Upon nearing the table, I beheld a grisly eyesore. Upon a napkin, Gravy had left a note that said, "tip," with an arrow pointing at a solitary can of gravy. Furthermore, the scoundrel had opened an envelope of gravy mix and disembogued the pulverized contents haphazardly across the surface of the table, the dishes, and the chairs. Amid the maelstrom was a cup full of what was meant to appear as urine, but was in actuality apple juice.
My fellow servers were astonished at the scene. I suppose I should have expected as much. Still, I was downcast by the reminder that instead of a monetary gratuity, I was left a can of mushroom gravy and a mess.
Until next time, dear blog, I remain faithfully yours,