The Grill

Summer weekends go by routinely. There’s an hour of brainwash at church, shopping at either Brea Mall or a far away outlet, and then lunch. My immediate family has done this since I was a freshman in high school. (In middle school, I thought I was too cool to spend time with my family) However, today was a little different.

Brainwash. Bought a nice pair of dark jeans for a steal. Fast forward to lunch. We ate at Gerry’s Grill in Artesia, which was a “trendy” Filipino eatery. I emphasize trendy because I have disdain for my ethnicity’s culinary height of oil and salt. The dishes were like putting lipstick on a pig; they’re pretty, but still a pig. I had major preconceptions about the place because my dad said he’d been eating here since bacteria fused into multi-cellular organisms or in his case before God snapped his fingers. So I thought there’d be servers dancing with bamboo sticks dressed in Filipino attire. I apologize for using the word Filipino so much. Filipino Filipino Filipino Philippines! Yeah!

But right when I walk in, I fell in love with the place. There’s the dark mahogany floor, people having a good time, and dark cherry chairs. The “maitre d” seated us to our table and the server who was surprisingly…well…white took our drink orders. He was kinda cute, but I was diagnosed with a serious case of yellow fever. I politely said hi (with a smile because he deserved it) as he introduced himself. But I was shit outta luck because I forgot his name as he said it so fast.

Then in an unfortunate turn of events and the destruction of the rest of the lunch, my dad recognized an acquaintance who was a server. So this server lady, overweight, who preached too much about workplace etiquette and whose mother obviously failed to teach her how to apply makeup and him started talking. Our real server brought my iced tea that he made himself from the bar and the bitch volunteered herself to our table. At this point my instincts told me to decline ASAP, but seeing how the purpose of this lunch was for family, I went through the five stages of grief instead.

Denial: “Oh my god, are we not being served by the cutie any longer? Why did she steal our table?!”

Anger: “Ughhh! Stupid Amazonian wench! Why did you have to be born?!”

Bargaining: “Please….You can have my father if you just switch back him.”

Depression: “Sigh*….f my life. Downgrading of servers…”

Acceptance: “Whatever.”

And a bonus step…

Insanity: “Maybe I should accidentally trip her to get him back… I had the idea, but lacked the capacity to execute.”

Instead I decided to ask of her every little thing that popped up in my head: extra lemon, more napkins, and water. This backfired as the she-wolf just had more time to annoy me further by talking. We ordered our food and minutes later the hussy brought us our food. I wasted no time in declaring as to what ingredients were deprived from the dishes. Drinking the soup was of course like chugging a gallon of cooking oil, the pork tasted too much like pork lacking lemon, and finally the “sizzling” shrimp was swimming in spaghetti sauce, disappointing. Overall the food wasn’t TOO bad.

I looked around to see what delicious food other people were eating and I saw him standing close by behind the bar. Even worse, I met his gaze. Either he was looking at the table he was supposed to be serving, or me. He turned his head down sharply to pour liquid in a glass. Yup, it’s me. How cute. I decided to investigate a little further. I knew where the restroom was, but what’s the harm in asking? I summoned up courage, got up and headed to the kitchen door. I felt his lonely gray eyes rest on my shoulders, but I dodged them until I can fully set up the façade situation. Upon looking inside, I faced him.

“Hi again.” I said.

“Hi”

“This isn’t the restroom is it?”

“No. Are you looking for it?” No I’d like to know where you live.

“Yeah.” This would’ve been a good time to look at his damn name tag but I forgot again.

“Here come with me I’ll show you where it is.” It’s so easy you could’ve pointed to it. You sweet sweet man, I know where it is. I definitely got more than what I was asking for.

“Thanks” I smiled

“No problem.”

He smiled and I noticed something weird about his smile. I have hawk eyes coupled with a brain wired for criticism. I don’t remember which side, but one was slightly happier than the other just like mine. I had a mini-stroke on the right side of my body and my grinning muscles reach farther on the left side, just like his…I got another good look when another customer asked him about something. Lean sinewy shoulders, a soft jaw-line, and a faux-hawk with little tufts of dirty blonde protruding everywhere but the peak. Even though he had soft features, he had that hard-working jealous protective look. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s pretty close to that look you give to someone who’s touching your brand new car.

I made it inside the room with nothing to do, so I washed my hands.

….Is this is the stint that Hooters does for dirty old men so they’ll come back? It’s working…

…Is this what that crazy reporter felt when he proposed to George Clooney screaming at the top of his lungs barechested and carnal “Me George! Choose me! Will you marry me George?”…

I hyperventilated a little bit, then freshened up and exited the restroom. To my surprise guess who was at the freaking table next to the doorway.

“Everything alright?” If you’re suggesting that I number two-ed in less than sixty seconds, no.

“Mmhmm =D Thank you” One last thing, can I give you a hug?

I went back to my table to find Xena the warrior princess with the check.

“(In Tagalog) Thank you. I hope to see you again. (In English) Drive safe.” She said

Shut up! After I’m through with you, you’re the one that’s going to need to drive safe.

“Thank you, the food was good” the dauphin in me spoke. We all started to leave. But a la Sodom and Gomorrah I looked back near the bar and saw him fixated on my ever fading self.

I didn’t turn into salt, although from the food my kidney will soon.