“I’ll have the chicken fingers.”
It’s a slam dunk. It simple, it’s easy, it’s cheap. I’ll be in and out in no time. The waiter smiled at me and nodded as if she understood my whole thought process.
“Oh,” she said, “dog fingers, okay.”
Wait a minute. She began to scribble on her notebook.
“No, no,” I spoke, “I want chicken fingers.”
I felt a little silly, there was no way I heard her right.
“Yes,” she agreed, “you want the dog fingers.”
No, I don’t want dog fingers! What is that? At this point, T leaned over me to listen to the lady, just to make sure she was hearing it right too.
“No ma’am, I don’t want dog fingers. I want chicken.”
There was some sort of miscommunication, but I couldn’t tell if it were on my end or hers.
“You want the chicken fingers,” she said again.
Finally, she understood.
“So, dog fingers?”
“No! No, I don’t want dog.”
“Don’t worry,” she assured me, “I know what you want.”
I was a little worried, I’m going to be honest. She took our menus and our order to the back. I sat there nodding my head in silence, there’s no way she’d bring me dog, right? A few minutes past by and the more I thought about it, the queasier I got. When she walked by our table again, I stopped her.
“I’m so sorry,” I told her, “but are you saying dog?”
The last thing I wanted was to be is a pest, she was busy, the restaurant was full, but this was something that needed to be cleared up soon. Dog wasn’t even on their menu. Trust me, I checked.
“Yes,” she told me.
I could see she knew there was something off but didn’t know how to fix it.
“I promise,” she assured me, “they’re the same thing.”
I wish I could have seen my face. I shook my head slowly; I was definitely missing something.
“No, those aren’t the same thing.”
She put her finger up, signaling me to give her a minute. She ran off to the back. At this point, I was really worried about what she was coming back with.
It wasn’t even a minute before she returned and handed me a napkin, on it, she had written the word 'adult'.
“This is what I mean,” she told me.
“Adult?” I said out loud.
“Yes,” she nodded, “Adult chicken fingers.”
It then all came crashing together.
“You mean and adult size order of chicken fingers?” I asked her.
She was so relieved I got it.
“I couldn’t say that word.” She admitted.
For Pete sake.