The French Toast Incident

Last night, I was enjoying a sublime moment of close physical proximity to my friend E____ (yes, this again). We were in bed, unclothed under the sheets, in what could pass for a twister configuration. It was really more of a lazy cat-sprawl, an entangled cuddle. 

Hands weren't being untowardly operated, although the thought did creep into my mind to make certain geographical incursions, but it would have been a struggle to maintain plausible deniability, so I refrained.

As we luxuriated, Sarah Umansky, my highschool girlfriend's mother, chided us for being lazy. Or possibly for impropriety. Or both.

"He's over here trying to get laid," my friend blurted, ratting out my thought-crime.

"There's no evidence of that!" I said defensively, although our body positions did not support my argument.

"Well, I'd like some French toast," E____ declared, putting an end to the debate.

We left the scene of the non-incident, and I soon found myself in a bustling, dilapidated diner, waiting for an order of French toast. The eatery's decor was -- hmm, come to think of it -- completely absent. It looked like a Denny's from the 70's without any of the happy signage, just bare walls and industrial linoleum flooring.

It was staffed by Russian immigrants, and Steve Carell was managing the place. The cooking and wait staff were overworked but of good humor, mostly. I joked with the counter clerk by pointing a TV remote at her, smiling as I feigned frustration with its inability to speed up my order.

A waitress, seeing this, pulled out a bulky device about the size of an 80s era cell phone and waved it toward the ceiling. It emitted a loud clicking sound, not unlike a geiger counter. I put my TV remote away, clearly bested by the display.

"That looks like a..." I began.

"Yes," Steve Carell said in an obviously fake Russian accent, "It is."

I ignored the implications and asked about my friend's French toast, which seemed to have been forgotten. A waitress behind the counter produced a bag and handed it to me with as generous of a smile as efficiency would permit.

Outside, in the car, my friend waited patiently for her French toast. When I showed her the order, she was underwhelmed. French toast in a bag? No syrup? And to top it all off, the egg coating was completely absent. 

I knew what had to be done, so I dutifully headed back to the restaurant. I was a bit chagrined, because as I was leaving the car, I could hear my friend giggling about some cute guy she'd seen in the parking lot. Nonetheless, I remained on task, determined to rectify the inequity of the insufficient French toast situation.

"Excuse me," I said to the already harried line cook, "but this French toast could use another egg dip, if you don't mind. It's pretty dry."

Without a word she took the two pieces of dehydrated bread from me, dipped them in a bowl and placed them on the griddle, a giant steel grill populated with hash browns, bacon, eggs and the like. I waited patiently, trying not to look annoyed as order after order was filled, and the French toast sat there, slowly blackening, and finally producing a wisp of smoke. 

The cook then picked them off the grill with some tongs and summarily dumped them in the wastebasket. I assumed that a replacement would be forthcoming, but it never appeared. She just kept on filling existing orders and taking new ones, none of which appeared to be French toast.

Steve Carell announced that they would be closing soon and that no more orders would be filled. I was outraged, but I tried my best tried to remain calm. 

"What about my French toast?" I asked curtly.

"You got your French toast," he countered. 

"No, I didn't. It was just toast," I reasoned, "There was no egg," I then leapt over the counter and began fumbling with the kitchenware in an effort to find evidence of malfeasance.

"You got it. You didn't like it. We don't replace. Now out!" He was adamant, and I had no choice but to comply.

"You haven't heard the last of me," I protested. "This place is corrupt! A sham of a restaurant!" I cried, giving him the finger as I stormed out. 

As I hurried back to the car, I could see a large contingent of wait staff, including one very large bouncer, pursuing me at a rapid pace. I broke into a run and yelled to my friends in the car.

"Get the car in gear! Punch it!" I screamed. 

I was only halfway into the car, the angry diner mob closing in, when I awoke.