It's your third anniversary and you and your wife are going out for dinner. You arrive at 8:45 for 8:30 reservations and the maitre d, an oleaginous and well-tailored Belgian, tut-tuts at your tardiness but shows you to your waiting table. You're a little surprised at the decor: The restaurant is essentially an enormous warehouse filled with cameras and klieg lights. Oh well, you guess that's just modern dining.
The maitre d' leaves you your menus. For some reason, there appears to be only one option for each course, dependent upon where you are seated. You try to wave him back to ask if there's some mistake, but you are interrupted by the clang of a dropped pan. There is a silence, as everyone's eyes, and cameras, shift over to the open kitchen area. And then . . .
'You f-ing donkey! You swine-faced barmpot arse! I have a palsied Gran who's more graceful to you, and she lost a foot to f-ing diabetes!Â
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