Dear Table 5,
I'm sorry your food took for-ev-er to make it to your table last night. That was embarrassing. But I'm glad you still enjoyed it.
Dear little girl on Table 7,
I thought you were awesome until you decided your brother's food looked better than yours. The kitchen hates me now. Thanks.
Dear woman in the weird shirt on Table 9,
It's not my fault you misread the menu and thought your pacific red snapper was coming covered in capers instead of a sun dried tomato and caper butter. So don't yell at me. Now the kitchen really hates me.
Dear Table 12,
I'm sorry I didn't realize you existed for the first however many minutes you were seated and you went through 2 baskets of bread before I sheepishly arrived. I still feel terrible. I swear that's never happened before. But don't try to milk your free drinks into free dessert. Oh wait you did that. So I bought your dessert with my own money because I didn't want the kitchen pissed at me again, AND THEN you didn't even finish the whole thing. It's my turn to be mad at you.
Dear Jack on Table 1,
Your vodka looked like melted ice to me. Please don't growl at me again.
Dear tipsy ladies on Table 21,
I totally thought you were my table. I guess the sections changed.
P.S. Lady sitting at position 4- you don't need any more alcohol. Your sentences aren't making sense.
Dear Big Bird and Johnnie,
News flash: nobody enjoys being around you.
To all customers, for the last time, no, we do not have ranch dressing. Yes, you will survive.
Dear potential Tuesday night customers,
Please be in good moods. My sanity depends on it. Because after last night, I don't know if I can handle another person from the planet of weirdness. Thank you.