Snorey, Sours, And Two F***ing Hands: A Dining Adventure

We decided to try a pizza and pasta place last night whose menu seemed good. They originally had three locations in the area, but apparently the one in Plano was the last one standing. Upon arrival we were told to seat ourselves after waiting a bit in confusion in the entryway.

We found a booth, and then found some menus and sat down. There were several cocktails that cost under $10, and while that’s great for the budget-conscious, it’s usually not a great sign as to their quality. Still. It was something.

After a bit the waiter approached the booth behind us, as evidently they’d been waiting since before we even seated ourselves. Oh well, perhaps they’re just short-staffed. While we waited, we had decided on a couple of different appetizers, some bargain-basement cocktails, and a couple of pasta dishes. We were ready. We were also listening in on his conversation with the people behind us.

“You see anything you like? Well, enjoy it now, because we’ve been sold to another company starting tomorrow,” which was followed by nervous and confused laughter by the other party.

Finally, it was our turn. He approached our table and it began.

“Are there any entrees you’d like me to get you started with?”

Me, kind of confused: “Do you mean appetizers? Because we’d like to start with those, first.”

“Well, sure, if that’s what you want. I was just trying to be efficient.”

“That’s appreciated, but I just wanted to make sure appetizers are still available,” I countered.

He sighed, making no effort to conceal it then removed the hipster cowboy hat he had been wearing and slowly pointed to his head.

“Look, as you can see, I’m a blond and have some blond moments occasionally,” he said as he gestured at his brown hair matted by his insistence of wearing a cowboy hat at a pizza parlor.

It was our turn to express nervous and confused laughter as he replaced the hat upon his head with a smug look of satisfaction at his “witticism.”

He started to walk away having taken neither a drink or appetizer order.

“Can we order some drinks now?” we asked with building trepidation. “We’d like a frozen Aperol spritz and a figgy mule.”

“Oh, we don’t have the frozen spritz. We’ve been sold, you know, as of tomorrow.”

“Well, do you have any frozen drinks at all?”

“We have a frozen margarita,” he beamed, “and the upside is that it’s really strong. In fact, if I can be totally honest with you, it’s fucking strong.”

It’s not often that a waiter will drop the F-bomb so cavalierly, so we were a bit silenced by shock, but then finally forced out a nervous and confused titter. It was all we could muster.

We decided against the fucking strong margarita and instead settled upon an amaretto sour.

“Oh, that doesn’t have any liquor in it,” he informed us.

“No liquor at all?”

“Nope.”

“So it’s a virgin amaretto sour?” we asked for clarification. “Isn’t amaretto alcohol?”

“Oh sure, amaretto has alcohol, but it’s what we call a liqueur. It’s not liquor though.”

Confused nervous laughter. “Um… that’s okay. That’s fine.”

“Okay,” he replied. “I just wanted to make you aware, since I had someone complain when they ordered one the other day saying ‘this does not have alcohol in it!!’ and I had to explain to him about it.”

“Sure, but to be clear, a liqueur does have alcohol in it, so….”

He started to take his hat off again but thought better of it and left.

As we waited for our drinks to arrive, we began to reassess if we should actually order anything else. We were getting a bad vibe. The other booth adjacent to us held a gaggle of women seemingly having a good time talking about their day. The waiter approached them, and they became hushed.

“Okay, sorry, but what were your drink orders again?” he asked them. After a bit of nervous and confused laughter from the gals they told him “Three waters and a Dr Pepper.” He told them he’d go get them and reminded them that this place had been sold and was changing names starting tomorrow, because why not.

It took about five minutes, but he returned with three waters and nothing else. He asked if there was anything else, and they reminded him about the Dr Pepper at which point he said, “Yeah, sure, but I only have two hands.” More tittering as he fetched the Dr Pepper, but en route decided to go to the back of the dining area and enter the bathroom.

“He’s going to the bathroom first?” one of the women asked incredulously. I wanted to remind them about his hair color situation but thought better of it.

During all of this we decided we definitely were not going to order anything else; we’d finish our drinks and leave. While he was in the bathroom, however, we contemplated just leaving right then since we hadn’t received our drinks, anyway. A philosophical conversation then ensued as to exactly how one defines “dining and dashing”: If you never eat or drink your order and you leave, does it count as dining and dashing? We decided to err on the side of caution and morality.

Finally, our drinks arrived. Or drink. He only had the figgy mule, not the liquor-challenged amaretto sour.

“Anything else now?” he asked after placing the mule on the table.

“Well… what about the amaretto sour?” I asked gingerly.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s coming,” he replied with impatience he didn’t bother to hide. “I only have two hands, you know.” 

So we’ve heard, dude.

While we waited for the other cocktail, we got to listen in on another conversation he had with the booth full of nervously laughing women. He was not bringing food or drinks, mind you, but just went over to them to tell a story about when he worked at a restaurant across the street and was dating one of the other servers whose father evidently did not approve of the relationship (what a shocker). His story was long and detailed with the occasional F-bomb sprinkled throughout, using his name, the girlfriend’s name, the manager’s name and the father’s name to explain how the father dropped by to confront him at the restaurant and who he won over with wit and grace (he must have had more than two hands then) and was invited to drop by and swim at the family pool (“…which was just two fucking blocks from the restaurant”) whenever he wanted. It was gripping; we were on the edge of our seats.

The women left after that, having only ordered some water and a Dr Pepper. I envied them as they walked out.

Finally, the other cocktail arrived, he asked if there was anything else, and we said we’d just like the check. He brought it and we gave him our credit card, but just as he started to walk away, he stopped and turned back.

“Hey, I want to ask you a question.” (Here we go, we were thinking.) “I read a study recently that said that most people cannot name all seven of Snow White’s dwarfs.”

We sort of shrugged with a “what are you going to do” kind of attitude, hoping he’d get to the point or just go run our card, but no.

“How many of them can you name?” he insisted.

“Oh, probably just one,” I replied peevishly. I don’t know what I was thinking. Cindy, on the other hand, started to name a few. “There’s Doc, and Bashful….”

“DOC!” the waiter exclaimed. “Most people don’t remember Doc!”

“Sleepy, Happy…. Is there a Happy?” Cindy continued.

“Yeah, there’s a Happy. And everyone says Doc,” he countered, evidently unaware that he was contradicting what he had just said about Doc.

Please just take our check and run our card so we can go, I was thinking as loudly as I could.

“It’s sort of a psychological experiment I’m running, asking people to name the seven dwarfs. Yeah, sure, everyone knows Doc and Snorey, but that’s usually about it” he said before finally leaving to run our card.

SNOREY? Really? He thinks there’s a dwarf named Snorey? Clearly there was more going on with this dude than simply lack of pigmentation to his hair.

We still left a 20% tip, however. Snorey would have wanted it that way.

Oh, and apropos of nothing, the last remaining Sfereco in the area will be under new ownership starting tomorrow.