I asked Rosie what she wanted for her 13th birthday and she practically shouted, “DICKS!”
Since her alternative was sushi, we were off to Dick’s Last Resort. Dick’s is a casual dining spot located in the Excalibur Hotel and Casino here in fabulous Las Vegas. Famous for their rude staff, diners are in for a shock.
Me: We came here today because it’s my daughter’s birthday.
Hostess: Are you sure she’s yours?
As we were seated at our picnic table our server walked up to take our order. Because he asked, we’ll call him “Bob”.
Bob: ” Stop hogging the whole table! There’s only four of you. You don’t get a whole table to yourself. What were you thinking? Scoot down! SCOOT DOWN! We don’t have all night. Suitably squished together, Bob covered the table with butcher paper. Slammed a bucket of condiments down and then threw silver ware and napkins.
As he passed out menus, Bob laid down the law. “First off all. Ditch the camera. I like my job and if I see it again I’ll walk away and you’ll go hungry. I don’t care.” My phone went into Jamie’s purse. Bob continued, “Okay, as you noticed we aren’t really polite here. So if you are sensitive or have weak little girlie feelings, get the fuck out now.”
“I see that nobody’s moving so what do you want to eat.” Bob tears some of the butcher paper off and is poised with a Sharpie. “Come on people, this ain’t the SAT’s. Make a decision. ”
Rosie piped up first, “I’ll take the Rugrats Ribs.” “Bullshit”, Bob retorts, “You’re older than twelve. Order something else.” Rosie gets that deer-in-the-head-lights look and stares back at her menu. Andy orders the “Sampla Platta” without incurring Bob’s wrath. Andy’s bigger than Bob and maybe Bob was sizing him up. Andy then order the Brisket and Pulled Pork eliciting a “whatever” from Bob. Then he turns on Jamie. “What are you eating, Hooker?” Jamie gets the cheeseburger. Then he turns to me. “What are you eating Fatso?’ Everything?” I order a plate of brisket. Then it was back at Rosie, “Come on princess. You ain’t the only one here.” Rosie orders a catfish sandwich. Catfish? Okay. Bob takes our drink orders and spins away. “I’ll get the Mexicans to cooking this shit up.”
In a flash, Bob’s back with the sodas. As he puts them down he says, ” To fuck with the diabetics here, I’ll let you figure out which one’s the diet. ” As we’re sorting the drinks and silver ware out, Bob starts to fashion hats out of butcher paper.
Rosie’s catfish sandwich was a failure. She didn’t like it. So she stated building some kind of structure. Maybe she was hoping Adam Sandler would walk up and ask her for a date. Every time Bob walked by he’d crunch her hat.