She says my distinguished friend across the room is some head honcho of food services and gets what he wants when he wants it. I take another slice of bread to satiate my hunger. It is actually quite good, but it cannot replace the bitterness I feel. I can't believe I was jilted out of my favorite dish by some guy in a suit. Our food still does not arrive.
Survival instinct takes over.
We discuss a plot to waylay the next server with food on their tray. Our jovial conversation has turned into terse silence. The atmosphere looses its spit and polish, and I watch my friend, the head honcho, devour the shrimp, hoping against all hope that he would spill some on his tie. Our appetizers arrive just in time to abort our plot to overthrow the innoccent waitron. Our hunger is satiated for the moment and our conversation turns toward the jovial side again.