We pulled into the parking lot at Hank’s Home Town Café. I smelled a hint of barbeque. “Must be their night buffet.”
The maître d’ said, “Help yourself and find an empty seat.” My stomach set to growling. Now I couldn’t wait to eat.
Our waitress had a voice that poked and stabbed at every nerve. She shrieked aloud, “We have a complimentary house hors d’oeuvre.”
“Your night buffet,” is what I said. “That’s how we’d like to dine.” She hollered out, “Buffet for two. You’ll like our food just fine.”
I couldn’t wait to eat the chunks of beefy barbeque. But when I lifted up a lid, not a piece of meat to chew.
We looked for mashed potatoes. Had there been a buffet theft? No spuds today for dinner. Not a doggone scoop was left.
Thank heaven all the broccoli and cauliflower were gone. My last adventure with those two spent all night in the john.
So, we worked our way right to the end of Hank’s no food buffet. And there we saw four glasses of some yogurt peach parfait.
We gobbled down our parfait. I’d say faster than Mach 2. Then hurried back for seconds before someone else came through.
I asked our waitress. “Where’s the cook? I wonder if he knows?” That’s when she hollered out so loud. “Buffet’s about to close!”
I blurted out. “The buffet’s closed? We didn’t get to eat!” She pointed to our parfait glass. “You wolfed down our best treat.”
So, I walked up to the cashier. He just might have been the cook. It didn’t take a lead balloon to show that we’d been took.
I handed him a fifty for a dinner I’d call strange. And sure enough we paid full price. One nickel was my change.