Tatie Danielle

Tatie Danielle exists. To see her, you had to be at [for obvious reasons I cannot disclose here the restaurant's name] Sunday in early afternoon. Tatie Danielle wears expensive clothes and rings and she is with another old woman. A wanna be Tatie Danielle, but too submissive.

Tatie Danielle wants everything right away. Tatie Danielle wants to eat something that is not on the menu. Tatie Danielle wants some tea. But it's only when you bring her her cup that she tells you that she wanted Earl Grey (a pause here: Obviously, I'm not a big tea drinker. It's just hot fucking water with plants. What's the fucking difference?!). When I brought her her off-the-menu meal, she complains after one bites that it's not cooked the way she likes it. She must have mistook me for her servant at home. I go back to the kitchen, talk to the Mexican cooks who always know how to make you feel even more stupid than you already are just by standing there, saying nothing and looking at you.

Tatie Danielle and her submissive friend they left two Platinum American Express card on the check for me to pick up, hoping that those two should be enough to pay their incredible bill of $16.25. I picked up the cards, pause to look at them trying to telepathically express my doubts: "You sure you want to do that? Can't one of you old bile bag foot the bill for the other? Don't you have some fucking cash to start with?"

But they would have none of it. So I swiped both cards found an extra pen to go with the 2 receipts and brought everything to the table. After they left, I see that they have left a $2 tip. But, incompetent to the last details, one of them didn't leave me her signed receipt. They gave me the two receipts from the same credit card.

Oh, and they disdainfully ignored me when I said goodbye to them and wished them a good weekend. For Onasis's sake, one doesn't mingle with the little help.