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Have you ever noticed that waiters can talk to everyone at the table with a normal voice except you? They lean in, lower their tone, and suddenly it's like you're discussing classified information. "Is everything alright with your meal?" they whisper. I'm just sitting there wondering if my pasta insulted the chef or something. And the interruptions! You're right in the middle of a hilarious story, and here comes the waiter, breaking the comedic flow. "How is everything?" they ask, as if my ability to appreciate humor is directly related to the quality of their pasta. It's like a sitcom with an unwanted cameo. "Can we get back to the regularly scheduled programming, please?
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I've come to the conclusion that waiters are secretly training for the Olympics. Have you ever seen the way they expertly navigate a crowded restaurant, dodging tables and customers like they're in a synchronized swimming routine? It's like a choreographed dance of trays and plates. I'm just waiting for them to start assigning scores for style and precision. And then there's the speed at which they deliver the check. It's like a magic trick. One minute, you're still savoring the last bite of dessert, and the next, the bill appears like it was summoned by a culinary wizard. I half expect them to pull a rabbit out of a hat as well.
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You ever notice how waiters can make you question your entire existence with a simple question? "Still or sparkling water?" Oh, the pressure! I always feel like I'm being judged based on my water preferences. Like, "Am I fancy enough for the sparkling water, or am I just a basic still water kind of person?" It's like a water-based personality test. And then there's the whole dance of splitting the bill. Why does it feel like I'm negotiating a peace treaty every time I go out to eat with friends? "I had the salad, and you had the steak, but I only had one glass of wine, and you had two, so maybe we should just split it evenly?" It's like a math problem from hell. I just want to enjoy my meal without becoming a part-time accountant.
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Can we talk about how waiters somehow become mind readers the moment you sit down at a restaurant? They approach you with that confident smile, and you're just there thinking, "Do they know I want the chicken or are they just hoping for a hefty tip?" It's like a high-stakes game of psychic charades. And don't get me started on the overly descriptive specials. The waiter transforms into Shakespeare, describing the day's special in vivid detail, making it sound like the culinary masterpiece of the century. I just wanted a burger, not a poetic journey through a flavor symphony. It's like, "Sir, I appreciate the drama, but can you just tell me if it comes with fries?
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