Fucking Bananas
“There’s no banana in this smoothie,” he says, all portly and righteous. “Excuse me! Waitress! There’s no banana in here.” He wibbles his hands at the glass, frowning at his fruitless drink.
Except he’s wrong.
There is a banana.
I know there is because I just took a big fucking yellow banana from the fruit bowl, peeled it, chopped it and blendered it. I know there is because we don’t have a gleaming kitchen of staff at hand, rushed off their whites, cooking up cordon bleu, dashing round the countertops who might (just possibly) forget the banana. Nope. We have me, and a blender, and a wallop of ice cream. And a fucking banana.
“I can assure you there is, sir. I just made it myself.”
Ooh, he doesn’t like that. Hasn’t anyone told this bitch that the customer is always right?
Well yes, they have.
And if she didn’t think doing so could lose her this shitty job, that banana and ice cream debacle would be dripping down your crotch.
“There isn’t. Taste it.”
I don’t need to taste it, I made it. I toy with refusing on the grounds that I’m allergic to fruit. Instead, I smile the classic well-worn waitress smile, all tucked in teeth and quiet snarling.
“No, thank you.”
“Take it back. I’d like another. With a banana in it.”
I take the fucking glass, which I would drink in the back with a slug of rum, but, as I say, I’m allergic to fruit.
And the soggy saliva of wanker customers.
This time he’s watching, sees the peeling and the chopping and the ice cream. He looks satisfied, like he’s got one over me, or managed to cop a feel.
“Ahh, now that’s better. See, that is a smoothie with a banana in it.”
Well, that it is.
There are other customers, coffees to grind and milk to froth, so I leave the Banana Man for a while, leave him to enjoy his drink and his victory. Until he sticks an arm out when I’m trying to squeeze past with a tray.
“I’d like some tea now. Earl Grey, Pot for 1.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Cafés in Sydney are never so clean, especially not Kings Cross way. It’s a city of cockroaches, all scuttling and beady in the corners, dashing out of bins and waiting for Armageddon to take over. You can always find dead ones curled at the back of cupboards, their spindly legs poking in the air. Black little legs, broken off.
You’d be surprised how much they resemble tea leaves.
A subtle flavour.
“Earl Grey?”
The bastard didn’t even tip.
Except he’s wrong.
There is a banana.
I know there is because I just took a big fucking yellow banana from the fruit bowl, peeled it, chopped it and blendered it. I know there is because we don’t have a gleaming kitchen of staff at hand, rushed off their whites, cooking up cordon bleu, dashing round the countertops who might (just possibly) forget the banana. Nope. We have me, and a blender, and a wallop of ice cream. And a fucking banana.
“I can assure you there is, sir. I just made it myself.”
Ooh, he doesn’t like that. Hasn’t anyone told this bitch that the customer is always right?
Well yes, they have.
And if she didn’t think doing so could lose her this shitty job, that banana and ice cream debacle would be dripping down your crotch.
“There isn’t. Taste it.”
I don’t need to taste it, I made it. I toy with refusing on the grounds that I’m allergic to fruit. Instead, I smile the classic well-worn waitress smile, all tucked in teeth and quiet snarling.
“No, thank you.”
“Take it back. I’d like another. With a banana in it.”
I take the fucking glass, which I would drink in the back with a slug of rum, but, as I say, I’m allergic to fruit.
And the soggy saliva of wanker customers.
This time he’s watching, sees the peeling and the chopping and the ice cream. He looks satisfied, like he’s got one over me, or managed to cop a feel.
“Ahh, now that’s better. See, that is a smoothie with a banana in it.”
Well, that it is.
There are other customers, coffees to grind and milk to froth, so I leave the Banana Man for a while, leave him to enjoy his drink and his victory. Until he sticks an arm out when I’m trying to squeeze past with a tray.
“I’d like some tea now. Earl Grey, Pot for 1.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Cafés in Sydney are never so clean, especially not Kings Cross way. It’s a city of cockroaches, all scuttling and beady in the corners, dashing out of bins and waiting for Armageddon to take over. You can always find dead ones curled at the back of cupboards, their spindly legs poking in the air. Black little legs, broken off.
You’d be surprised how much they resemble tea leaves.
A subtle flavour.
“Earl Grey?”
The bastard didn’t even tip.
posted by Jane at 5:03 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home