Yesterday, Thom and I took our German for lunch at Panera. We ordered separately, and scored a sweet booth. Axel was still grabbing his beverage while Thom and I collected our orders. Axel plopped down next to us and looked hungrily at our plates of food.
“How do you know when your order is ready?” he asked.
“They call your name,” Thom replied.
“But they didn’t ask for my name.”
“Can I see your receipt?” I asked.
He fished the paper out of his pocket, smoothed out the creases, and slid it across the faux wood table. I proceeded to giggle madly. Thom reached over and pulled the paper into his view. He slowly grinned and looked at me, then back at Axel.
“Seems the cashier decided your name was Tripe.”
The newly dubbed Tripe grabbed the receipt as we pointed out the mistake. Suddenly, over the speaker we heard, “Tripe, your order is now ready.”
Not for nothing, if I was working as a cashier at Panera (and we probably shouldn’t entirely rule that out as a potential career path for me) I’m pretty sure I’d have to find ways to amuse myself, also. Making up random names for people (especially names that involve disgusting delicacies) and then having them announced over a central PA system sounds pretty fan-frickin-tastic to me. “Casu Frazigu, your order is now ready.”
