Page 77 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
“Chicken salad sandwich with lightly toasted bread that’s crisp but not too crisp,” I repeat, pen poised over my pad. “Absolutely.”
“And my fries need to be on a separate plate,” she adds, tapping a gnarled finger against the laminated menu. “Not touching my sandwich. I don’t like it when it’s all on the same plate. It’s too cluttered.”
“Separate plate for the fries. Got it.”
“And tell Peter the chicken needs to be white meat only. No dark meat. Last time, there was dark meat mixed in.” She narrows her eyes as if I personally tried to sabotage her lunch last Tuesday.
“White meat only,” I echo, writing it down even though I know Peter always gives Mrs. Bryant white meat. He sometimes just has different opinions about what constitutes white versus dark.
“And the lettuce for my salad—”
“Iceberg only, no mixed greens,” I finish for her, which is a mistake.
She leans back, affronted. “Young man, are you rushing me?”
“No, ma’am. I’m just familiar with what you order by now.”
“Well, aren’t you clever.” She doesn’t make it sound like a compliment. “But actually, I want the mixed greens today. Not iceberg. Iceberg has no nutritional value, you know.”
I resist the urge to point out that she gave me a five-minute lecture last week about how mixed greens upset her digestion and iceberg was the only acceptable lettuce. Instead, I carefully cross out “iceberg” and write “mixed greens.”
“Mixed greens it is.”
“What?” She cups her hand behind her ear. “Speak up; I can’t hear you when you mumble.”
“MIXED GREENS,” I say, loud enough that the couple at the next table glances over.
“No need to shout,” Mrs. Bryant sniffs. “Now, what kind of dressing does that come with?”
“You have your choice of ranch, poppyseed vinaigrette, red-wine vinaigrette, bleu cheese, or green goddess,” I dutifully recite, even though I’m certain she’s going to want ranch, like she does every time.
“Green goddess?” Her eyebrows hitch nearly up to her hairline. “Sounds heathenish. I can’t abide this modern nonsense. I’ll have the red-wine vinaigrette. Not ranch. I no longer eat mayonnaise. I’m certain it’s what’s been upsetting my digestion.”
I pause in the act of writing down her dressing choice. “Mrs. Bryant, you know the chicken salad has mayonnaise in it?”
“What? Speak up, young man, I can’t hear you when you mumble.”
“THE CHICKEN SALAD—” I catch myself and lower my voice. “The chicken salad has mayonnaise. Did you want to change your order to a sandwich without mayonnaise?”
She frowns. “Well, leave it out. I don’t want mayonnaise.”
“The chicken salad is made with mayonnaise, Mrs. Bryant. It’s how we bind the chicken together.” I try to keep my voice level and educational rather than exasperated.
“Well, that won’t do.” She taps her chin. “I’ll have the tuna melt instead.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “The tuna also has mayonnaise.”
“What? Speak up!”
“THE TUNA HAS MAYONNAISE TOO,” I repeat, feeling a bead of sweat form at my temple.
“Oh.” She looks genuinely perplexed. “What doesn’t have mayonnaise?”
We spent the next several minutes going through the rest of the sandwiches on the menu. They are all dismissed: the crispy chicken (I can’t abide fried food; I decide not to point out that the fries are also, well…fried), the Cuban (foreign food upsets mydigestion), the veggie sandwich (I need PROTEIN young man!), the hamburger (I can’t have beef, it makes my gout flare), the three-cheese grilled cheese (I’m certain I’m lactose intolerant).
“Maybe you’d like the chef salad?” I finally ask in desperation.
“Did you not hear me say I need protein!”
