Another True Restaurant Story
When I was a kid of 15, I lived in a tiny suburb of San Antonio called Helotes.
There wasn't much to do back then for a young hippie girl except smoke dope and hang around the Stop n' Go, so I got a job as a dishwasher/busgirl at this fancy but countrified steakhouse.
My hippie best friend Barry and our friend Ronnie worked there, too.
Barry was a busboy and Ronnie was a cook.
We buspeople also served salads and refilled iced tea.
One day, I'd gotten my face on the front page of the Express News at an anti war protest. My parents didn't seem to mind, so I just sort of forgot about it.
Alas, a family of hayseed shitkickers came into the steakhouse soon after, and one of their devil spawn sons went to high school with me. They all seemed to know about my photo in the paper.
The daddy, a beer bellied cowboy with a deep, bellowing voice, started making remarks about gol-durn Communists going back to dadgum Russia whenever I was near their table. His minions snickered with each new tirade.
I told Barry and Ronnie about the man's verbal abuse.
Being the chivalrous gentlemen they were, Barry hawked up a loogie in the man's salad before serving it to him. Ronnie later dropped the man's huge steak on the floor, ground his boot into it, spit on it, winked at me, then returned it to the grill.
Now that I am a grown-up, the only time I send back food is when the potential addition of spit and boot prints will only enhance the flavor.