FSW: Meta-Bistro Edition

I'm gonna second what Richard said about his post this week.

Not quite firing on all cylinders. I'm really looking forward to the weekend. And not doing a damn thing if I can help it.

No word from Dave yet, but he could be busy putting razor-wire around his apartment.


(A small table in a stylish bistro. A man and woman are chatting about a book at one table. At another, Craig sits looking at the menu. A waiter approaches.)

WAITER: Could I get you something to drink while you’re looking over the menu?

CRAIG: I’ll just have a bottle of Evian.

WAITER: I’m sorry sir, but bottled water has been banned in the city.

CRAIG: Really?

WAITER: I’m afraid so. We just have tap water.

CRAIG: Oh, then, Aquafina I guess.

WAITER: That’s bottled water, sir.

CRAIG: Really? I read something on Slate.com about it being just tap water.

WAITER: It may be, but they still put it in a bottle and ship it out.

CRAIG: Where does your water come from?

WAITER: The lake, I suppose.

CRAIG: No aquifer or mountain stream?

WAITER: There are no mountains in Chicago.

CRAIG: Wow. This is tough. I really had a taste of water when I came in here.

WAITER: I can bring you a glass of water, if that’s what you want.

CRAIG: Why didn’t you just say so? I’ll have an Evian.

WAITER: But. It will be a glass that I hold under the tap in the kitchen sink. Because there is no bottled water.

CRAIG: Ew. Sink water? I thought this was a Zagat’s rated restaurant.

WAITER: The food is very good sir.

CRAIG: But the water’s from the toilet.

(Craig takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and pulls one out. He takes out a lighter.)

WAITER: Excuse me, sir.

CRAIG: What now?

WAITER: There’s no smoking in the restaurant.

CRAIG: (Sighing heavily) You didn’t ask me if I wanted smoking or non-smoking. I would have told you I wanted smoking.

WAITER: No smoking in the entire restaurant.

CRAIG: Fine. I’ll sit at the bar then.

WAITER: The entire restaurant. Including the bar.

CRAIG: You know I should just take my money and find another restaurant.

WAITER: But?

CRAIG: But nothing. Just bring me your foie gras appetizer. Unless you banned geese as well.

WAITER: Geese no. Foie gras yes.

CRAIG: Oh, come on!

(The lights come up on another table, at which Richard and Dave are sitting, drinking cocktails.)

RICHARD: The third one should have been funny.

DAVE: Foie gras is pretty funny, when you think about it.

RICHARD: It should have been something outlandish, though. Something extreme.

DAVE: Force feeding geese to make their livers swell isn’t outlandish or extreme?

RICHARD: Oh, shut up.

DAVE: I’m just saying.

(The lights go down on their table and come back up on Craig and the Waiter.)

CRAIG: Who are they?

WAITER: I don’t know, but they’ve been in here all morning commenting on everything anyone says.

CRAIG: Weird.

WAITER: I know. So, have you decided?

CRAIG: I’ll just have the grasshopper gonad soup. And a glass of your iced Deported Immigrant Tears.

WAITER: Venti or Grande?

CRAIG: Grande, of course.

(The waiter and Craig freeze mid laugh. The lights come up on David and Richard’s table. The look at one another and roll their eyes.)

DAVID: (Calling towards the bar, holding up his glass.) Yeah, I’m gonna need another one of these.

RICHARD: (Holding up his glass) Make that two.

BLACKOUT