Last week, we were bored in the bar.
It was just me and the boychef working, and the place was dead as a doornail. We cleaned a bit, we leaned on countertops and taps, we watched a little telly, and finally I said to him, ‘Ok, make me a couple of cheese sticks’.
Pleased about having something to do, he replied, ‘I thought you’d never ask’.
I ammended my order to 2 cheese sticks, 2 Jalepeno poppers and 2 chicken wings. A mini platter.
He made my requests, put them in a bowl and put a little dish of sour cream in the middle. It looked beautiful.
And then, without warning, we got busy. Football came on at 4pm, and we weren’t prepared for it (It was a monday, who plays on a monday afternoon?). So, I had to wait to eat my food until all the customers were served.
When I finally re-entered the kitchen to devour my snacks, my bowl was gone. I assumed Boychef had put it somewhere.
‘Where’s my food?’ I demanded.
‘It was right there,’ he replied, pointing to the spot on the counter where my bowl had been.
‘I know where it was, where is it now?’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t touch it.’
Unconvinced, I began searching the kitchen, ‘Where did you put it?’
‘I swear I didn’t touch it.’ came the reply. He seemed geniune. ‘Maybe the boss accidently gave it to one of the customers.’
Shocked at the suggestion, I walked around the tables, peering onto each one to see if my bowl had been given out by accident. I saw no sign of it.
I walked back into the kitchen and said, ‘Come on, I know you hid it somewhere, now where is it?’
He shrugged apologetically, ‘I swear, I didn’t touch it.’
I began looking through the cupboards. ‘I know it’s here somewhere!’
Comedic searching ensued.
Then, through the doorway to the cellar, I saw The Boss standing over one of the kegs, which had propped on it the chalkboard we use when counting the money. He was supiciously blocking whatever it was he was paying attention to.
I burst into the cellar, ‘J’accuse!’ I shouted.
He was hovering over my bowl of food.
‘You’re eating my food?! I can’t believe you! What do you think you’re doing, ya seagull, stealing other peoples’ food?’
‘It was getting cold,’ he said with a mischeivious grin, ‘I’m doing you a favour’.
‘I paid for that, by the way. You better replace it.’
After peals of laughter with BoyChef about the event, The Boss finally emerged from the cellar, looking quite satisfied not only with his expert theivery, but with his tasty meal.
‘I’ll get you for this,’ I threatened.
Revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold.
Yesterday was the day I enacted my conspiracy to commit.
Boychef beckoned me into the kitchen, excitedly exclaiming, ‘The Boss just ordered a burger!’
Perfect.
When BoyChef had completed making the Boss’s order, I delicately cut a sliver out of his burger, like a little pie piece and ate it. It was lovely, but better than that, The Boss would not fail to recognise that his burger had been vandalised.
He did not disappoint me.
For all my bold moves until this point, I retreated to a cowardly position, staying as far away as I could from The Boss, just in case.
When he walked into the kitchen, BoyChef mentioned that his dinner was ready. He distractedly replied, ‘Great, thanks,’ glancing quickly at the plate, then a double-take as he noticed the piece missing.
‘Did she take a bite out of my burger?!’ he demanded.
BoyChef shrugged. ‘I didn’t see anything’.
Coward.
When I returned from the toilet, The Boss walked past me saying, ‘Did you take a bit of my burger, ya bitch?’
I smiled sweetly, ‘Payback is a bitch’.
Revenge is oh, so very sweet.
Teach ye not to touch my food.
My only fear now is the retaliation. One of these days I’m only going to get half my steak, or worse yet, he’ll lick the thing and then put it back on the plate.
I hope for his sake, he just leaves our little battle well enough alone.
Don’t take my food!
