The Pineapple Express Lane
A group of people from my church used to go out to lunch every Sunday (I know where you think this is going but trust me, most of us were good tippers, and none of us were the kind to leave religious tracts in place of money).
The actual size of the group fluctuated from week to week depending on who was in church, when payday was, and whether the Carolina Panthers had an afternoon game.
This particular Sunday, every single person who ever participated in the group was there. I think there were somewhere between twenty to thirty of us all told, ranging in age from four to seventy-nine.
There were so many of us that the manager pulled a second waiter to assist in taking our orders. We made sure to specify who would be on what tickets ahead of time (this was before those Ziosk things were available) and assured the staff that we understood there would be both a long wait for food and an automatic 18% gratuity added because we still counted as “a party of eight or more” even if there weren’t going to be eight people on a single check, then ordered our drinks.
One of the men in the group, who loved nothing more than a good joke except for a really, really bad one, ordered his usual drink order, which was “diet water”.
The waiters headed off to the kitchen and came back with several platters of drinks, which they handed around. One of them, who looked like he had only just passed his training period, looked extremely nervous as he turned to Old Jokester.
Waiter: “I’m REALLY sorry, sir, I didn’t know what you meant by ‘diet water’, so I just brought you one without ice. I hope that’s…”
Old Jokester and his best friend both burst out laughing.
Old Jokester: “You’re the first person that’s ever actually tried to come up with something for that! No, that makes perfect sense. Thank you, that’s great.”
As a side note, the waitstaff kept us well supplied with refills on our drinks while we waited for our food. My brother had been excited to learn that pineapple juice was on the menu and had ordered it; it had free refills (at the time, anyway), so whenever the waiter asked if anyone wanted a refill, he got one.
Because of the size of the group and the fact that the restaurant was packed, none of us really thought anything of the fact that a different waiter seemed to bring it every time, until we were about halfway through our meals and starting to consider if we were in the mood for dessert. My brother asked for another refill. Suddenly, we looked up and discovered that every single waiter in the restaurant, plus some of the kitchen staff, were standing near our table.
The manager stepped forward.
Manager: “I’m very sorry, we just opened the last can of pineapple juice, and we are completely out.”
Brother: “That’s okay. I understand.”
Manager: “Nobody ever actually orders it, so we didn’t have very much of it. That’s also why so many different people were bringing you your drinks. Everyone wanted to see what kind of person was drinking so much pineapple juice!”
