A Game of the Same Name

May 30th, 2006 by ironsoap

Of course when we got to the table we were required to present one of our reciepts to the server, a distracted-looking middle aged woman with a lilting Spanish accent and a constantly harried demeanor. She snatched the tab off the table as she came by with the stalwart Sizzler Toast and glanced at it quickly. Then she did a double take and regarded Nik like a specimen in a petri dish. “Oh,” she said disdainfully, “You’re too… big!” The implication was that Nik was not deserving of a child’s entree since she was too grown up. I steeled myself for a confrontation but the constant pressure of a half-full section proved too much for her will to resist and she bustled off instead of continuing the thought. It was just as well but as she left Nik seemed a bit put off by the remark. There may have been under-the-breath grumbling, but Lister was talking too loud to hear it.

That may have been the end of the intrigue, but then Nik started watching our friends mow through plates piled high with vegetable delights from the neverending salad bar. She started wondering out loud if she shouldn’t have opted for the salad instead of the kid’s shrimp. I told her she could go order a salad bar if she wanted but she stressed that she only wanted a single trip. I didn’t recall such an option so I offered to return to the front counter area and investigate.

The only thing the menu listed as even close to what Nik was looking for was a “Side Salad” which, lacking a description, may or may not have been remotely close to what she was looking for. So I identified a managerial-type employee and approached him in what I hoped was a friendly manner. “Are the ‘Side Salads’ a single trip to the salad bar or are they pre-made?” I asked. The manager looked at me with confusion and asked for clarification. “What I’m saying is that my wife wants just one trip to the salad bar, do you have something like that?” The manager responded by reaching beneath the counter and pulling out a salad plate and handing it to me.

“Here you go,” he said, “it’s no problem.”

“Are you sure?” I was skeptical. “I’m fine with paying for it.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.”

I gave him my most sincere smile and thanked him profusely. As I walked back toward our table I was thinking that maybe I was wrong about Sizzler. Their food may occasionally be a touch on the cheap side but at least the service was turning out to be pretty decent. Giving Nik a free single trip to the salad bar certainly constituded going above and beyond the call of customer service in my book. As I approached the table to give Nik her plate I noticed that our server was back and handing out refills and plates of food ordered by some of our dining companions, who had placed their orders earlier than we had. But as I approached and tried to hand the plate to Nik so she could get her salad before the entrees arrived, the server intercepted me.

“You need ticket for this.”

“No,” I started to explain, “I got it from the guy at the front.”

“I have to get a ticket.” She wouldn’t let go of the plate and we had started a kind of subtle tug of war with it. I surrendered the plate and pressed my point.

“Listen, I got this from the manager, he just gave it to me. He said it would be cool.”

“That’s not the way it works,” she stressed, a firm believer in order and structure.

I was trying not to get worked up because I knew I had gotten away with a coup by getting the free salad in the first place so losing it now wouldn’t be a great human tragedy or anything but I was so close to succeeding in my mission only to be hijacked by this wage slave with no real stake in whether or not I got free salad. “No, I’m just saying I got it from the manag—”

She interrupted, “You come with me,” and she began marching, plate in hand, toward the register. I followed, unwilling to concede defeat just yet. As she approached I noticed with disappointment that the manager was no longer milling around the cashier’s stand. A setback. The server approached the youthful-looking alternate cashier and started to thrust the plate under his nose, accusingly.

“No!” I said again, “It wasn’t that guy. It was the manager, the one with the black shirt.” Finally I seemed to say something that registered with her.

“Oh,” she said, now a bit dejected. “I’ll go find him.”

A few moments later she reappeared with the black-shirted manager guy who apologized and said, “I knew that was going to happen. But don’t worry, it’s taken care of now.”

I thanked him again and the server offered a mumbled and insincere apology and then bustled off to some other steak-related catastrophe while I wandered back to our table and finally delivered Nik’s long-awaited ticket to salad bliss. Our friends expressed their disbelief in the extreme tactics employed by the server we shared a good laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. Eventually our food came and we ate; it turns out that Nikki was unable to even consume as much as a ten-year old as she left a few assorted shrimp on her plate as we patted our bellies and began the trek back across the street for more gaming.

On the way out I left our server a decent-sized tip.

For the entertainment.

Magic in the Air

Here are the games I played at this year’s Kublacon:

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