I Think Our Waitress is on the Lam

*** continued from previous post ***


There are pizza places, Greek restaurants, Pubs galore. There are Delis. There are Steak Houses, Italian restaurants, and a couple of Seafood Joints. GAH! What is it with the Canadian gustatorial scene? Oh Canukistan, you are nothing but a restaurant tease, you hussy! Sliding quickly back to despair, a lump grows in my throat when I notice a listing for a hotel with a restaurant! Eureka! Breakfast! I pull up the address, look at the directions. Mom peers over my shoulder, "Hey, that's right next to the gas station where we filled up!"

Well of course. Of course it was. Why would it not be?

"Hey," Mom says, "Everything for a reason."

I can't argue with this logic. If it were not for the detour, we would have never found the 'Tomb of the Drunken-Monkey Translators'.

"Let's just get something to eat," I say and fire the bike. "I could use a rest and I could eat almost anything. Except beer-battered scrambled fish eggs."

We meander back through deserted streets that is Stonekeep. This is so bizarre. Where the HELL are the people? We've passed like 4 cars all morning. I suspect the Zombie infestation has crossed the river. As soon as it gets dark, the streets will be filled with Canadian Zombies, wandering and feasting in a very orderly and polite manner. Hopefully we will be long gone by then, but I'm not taking any bets. Speculation could wait. We needed food of our own. So, we retrace our steps and sure enough, right next to the gas station that we had stopped at 40 MINUTES AGO was a hotel. Akin to a slightly upscale chain hotel, nice, familiar, generic, and most importantly serving breakfast.

Without any trouble at all we find the hotel, park the bike and de-gear. We dash into the restaurant, and the wonderful aroma of real food wafts gently over the tables to smack into our nostrils like the push at Normandy. Minus all the death and carnage. And Nazis. I hear your Mom's stomach growl with anticipation. Well said dear lady, well said.

The hostess - I assume she's the hostess but could be a very aggressive prep-cook - comes over and gives us a smile. After we establish that it is just the two of us, she guides us over to a large booth that looks out into the hotel's central atrium. This was a bit of a surprise because you couldn't see this architectural marvel from the outside. Ah the wonders of this modern life. I'm in Canada, wayyyyy up north, gazing into a tropical oasis. The atrium was the core of the hotel, stretching six stories high to a green-glass domed ceiling. It was lovely with the morning sun lighting the flora, outlining the leaves and fronds of a tropic paradise. Again, a thorough examination of the biological splendor could wait until our stomachs were full.

Our waitress is young, probably mid-20's and wearing, what I can only describe as a black and white stripped frock. The outfit, although I am no fashion critic, is not flattering. She looks like a prison waitress. Once again, I lay no claim to expertise in this area but I don't think they have waitresses in prison. Oh sure, there are a few fellas that would be happy to fill the role, but no females. Unless it's a women's prison. Come to think of it, I may have seen an after-school special concerning that very topic. No matter. This goddess of the feast hands us a menu, then takes our drink order, and disappears.

There are a few other couples in the restaurant, some small groups of businessmen and women hunched over tables, conferring quietly. No doubt planning some revolutionary activity for they are very much 'on task' if you know what I mean. I deduce that there must be a convention taking place at the hotel. I wonder what type? Real Estate? Dentistry? Used Moose dealers? People cast curious glances at us. Not unfriendly mind you, just curious. I smile when we make eye contact. I hope I don't look demented from hunger.


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Please don't comment on the story or you'll explode. Thanks. ***