I like fresh ground pepper. My wife likes fresh ground pepper. My friends like fresh ground pepper. I particularly like it on my weekly Sunday breakfast, which, as it happens, takes place in the same local neighbourhood diner as it has for ten years.

Alas, this diner deploys simple pepper shakers, inadequate for our tastes, so we bring along our own purse-sized mill. This diner, I should further point out, is generally patronized by regulars each Sunday morning, and we are on a smile-and-wave basis with most of them.

As usual, this past Sunday, we were enjoying our breakfast, talking, laughing over stupid jokes, the usual. At the table to our immediate right was a couple of about mid-50s (same as us), but unfamiliar to us, not regulars, and the man had a loud voice. So loud, in fact, that he made our conversation a little difficult.

During a lull in our conversation, I heard him say:

Loud Guy: “Pass the pepper.”

My friends then mentioned that they were going for a bike ride later and wondered if we’d like to join them. I thought it over, and just as I was about to answer, I heard a scraping of a chair from the next table. Suddenly, the man with the loud voice was looming over our table.

Loud Guy: “I SAID ‘PASS THE PEPPER’, god-d***-it!”

He barked and reached across the table to grab my pepper mill. A cacophony of protest, surprise, queries, and exclamations followed. I managed to block his hand and looked up at him.

Me: “Hey, what are you doing?!”

My friend, a very mild-mannered and gentle man, jumped to his feet and squared up.

Loud Guy: “PASS. THE. PEPPER! What is so hard to understand?!”

I quickly slid the pepper mill off the table and into my pocket, then I, too, stood up.

Me: “The pepper? You mean my pepper? That isn’t the communal pepper.”

Loud Guy: “What the f*** is wrong with you? I want the god-d*** pepper!”

At this point, his wife/girlfriend/companion, quicker on the uptake, realized his mistake and tried to get his attention.

Loud Guy’s Companion: “Listen!”

She tried, but he’s doubling down and was not to be denied.

Loud Guy: “Get that f****** pepper out of your pocket and hand it over, NOW!”

Eyes were uncomfortably on us. Other tables were watching this play out in surprise and shock. At this point, a server approached with her arms full of someone else’s breakfast.

Server: “Hey, guys, not sure what’s going on, but I have hot food here. Coming through!”

As she passed, he shouted again and this time threw his hands in the air in a “what the h***?” gesture. It all happened in a blur, and before the server could duck, she was covered in sunny-side-up eggs, home fries, and sausage.

“What the h***!” “Hey!” “Watch out!” “Oh NO!” and a dozen other exclamations from the onlookers erupted all at once.

Loud Guy: “F***! See what you f****** did?!”

His companion had scrambled to her feet to assist the server, who dropped the second plate as well. My wife also got up to help, and the owner, a sweet-faced 65-year-old, suddenly emerged from the kitchen.

Owner: *Alarmed.* “What is going on?”

Everyone started talking at once, and the loud guy shouted over everyone, indicating me as he spoke.

Loud Guy: “THIS A**HOLE WOULDN’T PASS ME THE PEPPER!”

The owner gaped uncomprehendingly at him for a moment. She looked at the mess on the floor, the now red-faced and furious loud customer, the other customers, and then at me.

Owner: “He… what? There’s… pepper on your table.”

His companion screamed at him again.

Loud Guy’s Companion: “APOLOGIZE NOW AND SIT… DOWN!”

Me: “It’s my pepper mill, not the restaurant’s.”

Loud Guy: “F****** idiot, why didn’t you say something, a**hole?!”

I laughed out loud and looked with amazed surprise at my friend. He stared straight at him and said in a quiet but firm voice:

My Friend: “Listen to your wife and sit. Down.”

The owner looked around at the mess and confusion. At this point, approximately 45 seconds had elapsed since this loud guy first lurched to his feet to steal my pepper.

Owner: *To the loud guy.* “I think I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I can’t have this in my restaurant.”

His companion, nearly in tears, began apologizing rapidly and repeatedly. He started protesting and demanding that he get to eat his breakfast. The owner, sweet-faced but tough, told him he could leave voluntarily, or she would have the police assist him.

His companion left a wad of money on the table and grabbed his arm, pulling him to the door. She says to the owner and server:

Loud Guy’s Companion: “I am so sorry.”

I guess he loves his pepper, too.

My family and I have just finished dinner while on a road trip.

Waitress: “Can I get you guys any desserts? We do a real good pie.”

Me: “Oh, the pie sounds nice, but no cream, please.”

Waitress: “Oh, but you gotta get the cream! It’s actually illegal not to have cream with pie in Texas!”

Me: “Wait, really?”

Waitress: “It’s a matter of Texan pride! Remember the à la mode!”

There is a brief moment of silence before my wife and I break into a strained guffaw.

Me: “Okay, we have to get the pie after that!”

I couldn’t get the cream because of lactose intolerance, but the waitress got me some lactose-free alternative, so I was able to have my Alamo Pie without breaking any Texan laws!

I’m working at a deli/diner where you can see the kitchen from the seats. We have a new chef in the kitchen. An older regular comes in.

Regular: “Oh… you got one of them… uh… foreigners up in the kitchen?”

Me: “That’s Vasu, and he’s a d*** good cook.”

Regular: “Yeah, but I want some good ol’ American food. I don’t want none of that Indian stuff.”

Me: “[Regular], how long have you been coming here?”

Regular: “Longer than you’ve been alive!”

Me: “And has the menu changed once in all that time?”

Regular: “Uh… not really.”

Me: “Exactly. So, you want your bacon, ham, and eggs?”

Regular: “…yeah. Tell him not to mess it up.”

Our new chef prepares the food and brings it out to our regular.

Chef: “Non-foreign bacon, ham, and eggs for the gentleman, not too messed up.”

Regular: “Now come on, there’s no need to be unprofessional.”

Chef: “And there’s no need to assume I can’t cook your food because of my ethnicity. But don’t worry, Indians are a generous people, so I’ve even thrown in a free side: a local delicacy called a dash of not giving a d***.”

He returns to the kitchen, and the regular decides to complain to the owner. I wasn’t privy to that conversation, but the regular became less regular after that. We got a surprise visit from a government inspector a few weeks later, claiming we were hiring an illegal immigrant chef, which came as a shock to Chicago-born Vasu.

I’m waiting tables. A friendly couple is looking over the menu. The husband waves me over, looking concerned.

Customer: “Hi there, quick question. What kind of animal is ‘vegan’?”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “You’ve got a vegan burger, vegan chili, vegan nuggets… I just want to know what it is. Is it like venison?”

Me: “Vegan just means there’s no meat or animal products in it. It’s not an animal… It’s the lack of one.”

Customer: “Ah. So… like Impossible Beef?”

Me: “Exactly! It lived a long, fulfilling life of never existing.”

Related:
Let Me Vegan Again

Back in the 1990’s I am having lunch in a diner in Louisiana. A guy and his friend sitting next to me at the food bar are talking to each other, and one of them is holding a newspaper.

Guy #1: *Reading an article headline out loud.* “Louisiana is ranked 49th in education out of all the United States.”

Guy #2: “Wow, how many states are there?”

They both looked at me as I choked on my coffee.