People pointing at the menu.

You walk through the doors.

And the smile on your face slowly fades when you see it.

One arm, finger extended, pointing at the board as if he were a general surveying the battlefield.

His head turns slightly, glancing down on two gray-haired women he’s ordering with.

One woman squints like the menu was written for an eye exam. The other grips his arm firmly.

After a minute, the man speaks.

“Did you see they have a BLT?”

One woman sticks her bottom lip out and nods.

Followed immediately by:

“What’s… what’s on that?”

Behind them, the line you’re standing in all exchange eye contact for only a moment.

It’s silent yet it screams.

The man continues.

“Well it’s bacon, lettuce, tomato… and… wait… what’s that? Avocado?”

He says it like the description didn’t say “avocado.”

Your tongue traces your cheeks as you suck in air.

The lady ordering turns to the man.

“Do you like avocados?”

And you find yourself pulling out your phone.

A QR code on the table.

There you are, excited to try the new hot restaurant in town.

The exterior is brick. The interior has Edison bulbs hanging from black ceilings, and the first impression is quickly looking like it deserves a second.

But when you make your way to the table, you see a red flag sitting beside a ketchup bottle.

The QR code.

That damn QR code.

Parting the otherwise impressively stained wooden table as if it were the Red Sea.

Your eyes immediately start scanning the restaurant for a menu.

Any menu.

Hell, even a sticky note would do.

But the only paper-looking thing you’re seeing is the pencil-thin mustache worn by the bartender in the Waldo shirt.

Your fist tightens, and eventually the waitress swings by.

“Hey… do you have a menu?”

She smiles politely.

“Yeah… just pull out your phone and scan the QR code.”

Which is what everyone wants to do: go to a restaurant yet keep the thrilling experience of ordering from home.

A beer list written in chalk.

Cousin to the QR code.

These bastards.

Instead of having a nice and neat list on one passable paper menu, the beer list is written on a chalkboard in legal-print size.

You squint.

The chalkboard itself is less beer list and more like the inner-workings of a 10-year-old boy’s notebook.

There’s doodles of dragons. A sword splitting a skull down the helm. And randomly, a baseball player sliding into what appears to be second base.

You curse under your breath and kick yourself for coming here.

When you finally stand and walk over to the board to get a better look, the names you find are more boyish than beer.

Frosted Frog Merchant IPA.
Hank’s Home Run Ale.
Maple Apocalypse.

You look away.

There’s a guy with an arm sleeve who appears to be enjoying all of them. 5 or 6 glasses are collected at his side.

But you’re not that guy, and you don’t have a sleeve.

Eventually, you work up the nerve to ask the bartender what Maple Apocalypse tastes like.

He pauses thoughtfully.

“It’s a little citrus forward.”

And now you’re thinking about orange juice.

An extra extravagant birthday celebration.

Hold my beer Broadway, because this casual Tex-Mex restaurant has center stage.

Dinner is normal when all at once, the lights dim.

Then comes one sparkler from the back.

Followed by twelve more carried by a line of singing waitresses, waiters, and somehow even the busboy.

Your eyes scan the crowd trying to find the culprit.

And then you spot her.

A 12-year-old girl shrinking into her chair.

Not embarrassed smiling.

Hostage smiling.

Slowly, other tables catch wind of what’s happening.

People stop chewing.

Fingers start pointing.

And one dad whistles.

And after twelve straight seconds of muffled singing, the room arrives at the part nobody prepared for:

The name.

“Happy birthday dearrrrr…”

Suddenly everyone mumbles.

“…mmmmmmbblllleeeyyyy…”

“Happy birthday to you.”

And you quietly make a note to never come here again.

The lost waiter.

Now you see him, now you don’t.

Five minutes after you sit, he passes by and, out of the side of his mouth, he shouts,  “I’ll be right over.”

Ten minutes later, he returns.

He dumbly asks if you’re ready to order, apparently not seeing the table’s heads craning like meerkats.

One husband’s face has even turned the color of a hot water bottle, and you can hear him muttering, “this never happened before.”

After all sixty minutes of an hour, the food is served, and the wife flags the waiter down for the bill.

When you get it, the 20% gratuity is included.

Naturally.

Happy Memorial Day! What did I miss? Please like, comment, share with a friend and let me know which sign pisses you off the most. 

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