Hogwash

Correction: I was horrified to find that I had a spelling error posted large as life for 9 straight days. I humbly apologize.

Well, I am bored as hell (shocker!) and I thought I should throw something up here so in the absence of anything worthwhile, I shall regale you with a tale of last night's encounter with a surly barman. Let's call it "(Petty)Showdown at the Formosa Cafe."

Arriving at the historic Formosa Cafe around 8:30 for The Doug and Mara's fundraiser, my lady friend and I made our way to the bar. Whilst imbibing on the first of several free cocktails, we eyed a miniature, A-frame menu advertising appetizers at Happy Hour prices. The veggie spring rolls were too great a sumptuous value to resist. We ordered them. They came, Nicole ate them, all was well...or so it seemed. A short while later, Ellen arrived and had designs on veggie spring rolls of her own. These, however, would have to be of the full price variety as the mini-menu had been replaced by one far more physically and economically imposing. We ordered them anyway. They came, the broads ate them, all was well...or so it seemed. When the check came, I noticed that we'd been charged the full, robust price for both sets of rolls, rather than one-and-one, happy hour-to-regular. I jovially pointed this out to the waitress who immediately agreed as to the error and vowed swift reparations. I thanked her, gave her my credit card and she vanished to the unseen kitchen area. That's where, as we would later find out, someone got to her. She came out moments later to ask me how many veggie spring rolls had come out in the initial serving, because someone in the kitchen (with Dina?) was asserting that we got six, which was apparently more than the Happy Hour portion. I assured her I had no idea since I had not partaken, but that, regardless, we had ordered the first veggie spring rolls under the pretense of the low low price as it was displayed to us and would probably not have so splurged otherwise. After all, I had enjoyed a turkey sandwich on the way over. I did stipulate that I was certain the first spring rolls had arrived on a decidedly smaller plate. Again, she was gone. Moments later, a strange man dressed in black emerged, seemingly from thin air, and inquired if we were "the people with the veggie spring rolls." In my own subtle way, I answered, You got it, Butch. Well well well....This man in black was visibly perturbed. He said that while he was going to adjust our check to reflect a one-and-one price tab, he just wanted me to know that we DID get six(!) veggie spring rolls. He was adamant about the number we had received and consumed and that number was SIX! Not two, not four, but six. The implication, of course, being that we are somehow responsible for knowing how many veggie spring rolls are served in any of their various price tiers and that by eating the allegedly additional spring rolls placed in front of us, we were making a commitment to pay for them. You-eat-it-you-buy-it kind of thing. I acknowledged that we'd been so informed and somehow managed to keep my immeasurable gratitude for his lesson in ethics contained. Then he somewhat brashly asked to confirm my mini-menu story. I stood my ground, the truth standing behind me like a big brother with his arms crossed. The man in black then pointedly checked to make sure that this mini-menu had now been taken away, seemingly so that we could not try any more of these shenanigans. We showed him that it certainly had, most likely sometime around when Happy Hour ended, or ten minutes after we polished off the last of the first veggie spring rolls. With one more fleeting yet still prideful assertion that we had gotten six spring rolls, the man in black was gone. The waitress returned with the new check, still cheerful, still as disinterested and baffled by the scope of this minor battle as I was. Sure enough, there was the receipt with the old total and there was the receipt with the new total. Everything's kosher, right? Wrong. The credit card receipt, the little guy you actually sign, still carried the older, higher total of injustice. What was I to do? Track down the innocent waitress again and drag this trifling tragedy out even further? On another day, after another drink, that just may be exactly what I would have done. Alas, it was not to be, not on this night. On that night, the point was conceded to the man in black. In the end, he just wanted it more. I scoffingly signed my name as if writing a check for a parking ticket, including an impartial tip for the waitress who was unwittingly caught in the crossfire. I downed the last swig of my martini, paid my respects to The Doug, and called it a night, without the slightest flutter of regret or shame. After all, we did get six veggie spring rolls.

THE END.

And look at that, it's now time to go home!