Do you want spit with that?

All your nice comments on the last post made me cry. I was thinking about you all when I was in town today, and I think I'm very lucky to have you as readers. I mean that absolutely.

Every time I publish a post, my forehead creases with worry as I imagine a generic Whoopee reader sitting at a monitor, reading it, then sighing with disappointment at my immaturity and the number of times I say the word fuck*. It's probably because I was always the one at school who mucked about in class, often the cause of grave dismay, and was always being told to shape up or shit off**. That kind of thing stays with you.

*Urban Cowgirl, that one was for your filter.
**And that one.

Now I'm going to tell you all about my dinner.

We went to a Polish restaurant tonight that I hadn't been to in thirty years. My mother used to take me when she worked nearby. I had fond memories of it, and Caroline once told me she liked it too "because they're so rude in there. I like the way they slam the food down on the table in front of you without a word." You get a better class of abuse in some establishments.

From a similarly masochistic standpoint, I like the menu. It hasn't changed much in thirty years. It's full of things children hate, a menu straight from the grim underground kitchens of Harsh & McBastard's School for Unfortunate Orphans. No-frills items like Herring. Spinach, warm. Beetroot. Sauerkraut. The ominous Assorted meats. No doubt sullenly thrown onto a plate by a chef who then spits on it and damns you to all hell.

I ordered Meatballs and Spinach, warm. Potato cakes for Esme. Ian got Meatballs and Sauerkraut: Nick went with Herring. Two Cokes, two apple juices.

The waitress arrived with the drinks first and in astonishing accord with Caroline's description, as she was putting them on the table, she sent one apple juice crashing all over the tablecloth, Ian's leather jacket, Esme's coat and Esme's leg. Esme, whose eyes had lit up at the sight of an enormous, shining golden glass of apple juice, couldn't understand why this woman had brought it to her just to hurl at her, and burst out crying. One mighty wail, a pause for breath: then: another wail, even mightier than the first. I, who as you know suffer from Fear of Being Tutted At, immediately took her outside. I got her to the door at the height of the second wail, just as the whole place was looking up in austere disapproval. I cuddled her on the pavement until she was okay, then we went back in. The table had been mopped. The bench seat against the wall where I'd been sitting with Esme still had pools of apple juice on it. The floor under my feet was awash. I had my favourite shoes on. I feared for them. Esme's apple juice was replaced, though, and the waitress had left us a sodden teatowel to finish cleaning up with. Well, she was busy. Probably had to go and punch somebody else in the cock.

The food arrived, and was absolutely bloody delicious.

Then the waitress reappeared with four or five paper napkins, dropped them in the middle of the table, announced that "You will be needing some more of these," and vanished again. We exchanged worried looks.

"Oh, shit. What's she going to do to us next?"

We didn't order dessert.

Ian left a tip, though. He said he has a twisted sort of respect for that kind of service. I know what he means. I'd go again just to see what happens next time.