After a tough week of attending a whopping nine hours of class and spending entirely too much time on our common room’s couch looking at themetapicture, my two friends and I decided it was time for a night out. And by night out, I really just mean an evening spent gorging ourselves on the fattiest things we can find, which just happened to be massive amounts of burgers and fries.
It’s gotten infinitely easier to just go out to eat without worrying if there will be food for me that is not a side salad, but my my friends were not so convinced. While I have developed the attitude of “everything will work out”, my friend has an entirely different approach. Katherine is that girl. We have all had that girl in one of our classes or at work. She’s the girl who gets all her work done a minimum of one week in advance, who dots all her i’s and crosses all her t’s, who says the right thing, and never swears or speaks out of turn. Yeah, we have all hated her at some point. But I don’t use the term that girl out of spite… Okay, it’s like ten percent out of spite and ninety percent out of sheer awe because, if I allow myself to admit it, I only dislike that girl because I wish I were more like her. Anyways, Katherine always organizes our outings and makes sure I am adequately fed, which means her eyes scan each online menu for the magical words “Veggie Burger”.
Red Robins had a veggie burger, lucky for them. I feel like restaurants have a secret vegan tracking device and they know, somehow, the minute I walk in that I’m going to start shit. It’s not like I try to be really obnoxious, it’s just, like, this social disorder I have. Anyways, we have this really sweet, blonde, Southern Bell-type waitress who is, of course, chewing gum as she takes our order. I feel kind of mean about how much I pester the waiters and waitresses who so diligently serve me, but come on! When your job is to serve the customer, serve the fucking customer! When I tell you that I’m vegan, for the love of god and all that is holy, do not respond with, “Oh, that must be hard. I don’t know if this has eggs or not. It might… We have salad.” You know what’s hard, lady? Quantum physics is hard. Trying to get my cowlicks to stay down is hard. Asking a cook if something has milk and egg in it shouldn’t be hard. You’d think with all the food allergies today you’d have a more allergy-friendly menu.
And then came Gumby, otherwise known as the man of my dreams and answer to my problems. Not only was his chin equipped with a beard, but he was also taller than me (I’m pretty sure that brings the total to seven men in the world that I now do not tower over.) and he was vegan-friendly. Actually, he was allergy friendly, which I’m sure my friend, Clara, would squeal over and promptly display her list of allergies which is longer than my legs. After the poor waitress had had enough of my “are you fucking kidding me?” and “oh my god, just ask the cook!” looks, she hurriedly fetched this man, who, after reading all the labels of the buns and allowing me to double-check him, presented me with a packet of allergy information. I wish I had a picture of this thing because it is the cutest! He even put it in a portfolio and titled it “My Red Robin ‘Allergie’ Guide. YUMM!” The misspelling of allergy just makes him even more endearing.
I think Gumby was mildy creeped out by the fact that I just kept crooning, “Oh my god, you are my hero… my heeeeero. Oh my god, you are wonderful. Wonderfuuuuuul.” It’s just, I had this vision in my head of sadly chomping on a side salad while Katherine and Andrea inhaled their huge burgers, tower of onion rings, and sides of broccoli and french fries, and my soul was dying. Gumby replaced this sad vision with one full of Boca burgers, whole wheat buns, and happiness.
So the lesson here is to never be afraid to be that annoying customer who just keeps asking about the ingredients. The waiters and waitresses are there to serve you and are, 9 times out of 10, super helpful and understanding about your diet. I can almost guarantee that if you ask, there will be a vegan or vegetarian option for you that does not include the words “side salad”. However, just in case the waiters are bitches and don’t take you seriously (this has happened to me a couple of times), tell them that you are lactose intolerant and they perk up like you just announced that you are the health inspector and found a fingernail in the soup. When you introduce death and suffocation into it, THEN they get serious. Otherwise, don’t be afraid to ask questions and badger the kitchen staff! Hell, I’ve practically turned it into a hobby.
In conclusion: This is just a thought, but whoever invented the concept of the bottomless fries should seriously be sentenced for indirectly killing thousands of people by obesity. I mean, come on. Who actually stops after that first basket even though they are nursing a seven month old food baby? Certainly not this girl. I will sue if I ever die of obesity.
The Big V 