Patti’s pretty great. She recently became a proud grandma, in addition to being just a grand mama; she’s one of those really crafty people who can make a piece of paper turn into a work of art with a few folds and hand-press thingers; she’s one of my fellow odd ducks who meet monthly to share our writing; and she’s a lover of our local greasy spoon.
She meets there regularly with friends. Weekly, I believe.
She meets there often enough that the waitress who served us last week knew her.
Which is where this story really begins.
Patti ordered a BLT. I ordered a BLT with a fried egg on it. (It was on the menu like that, honest. Why it wasn’t called a bacon and egg sandwich with lettuce and tomato, I don’t know.)
When our sandwiches came out, the waitress began to address Patti as she was approaching our table, before I could even see the sandwiches: “Is this toast too burnt? If it were my toast, I’d send it back. I don’t know why they sent this out like that. Do you want me to take it back?”
I looked at the sandwiches. Her toast was rather charred.
Patti reluctantly agreed that it was too burnt, so a new sandwich was prepared. The waitress returned. “I knew you wouldn’t have said anything,” she said, “so that’s why I brought it up. I know you. You wouldn’t have returned it.”
I know you, the waitress said.
I know you.
And that’s just one more reason why I love this town.
Because Patti wouldn’t have returned the sandwich on her own.