Restaurant staffs often give their regular customers nicknames, not to ridicule or make fun, more of a short cut, so that we are better able to — okay, we do it to ridicule and make fun.

SIR PLUMPY

Jack’s

7:30 pm

It’s a busy Friday. Palmer and I are the only waiters on tonight, and we are kicking ass. Vicky the hostess catches me on the back staircase.

“The Plumpies are here.”

“Shit!”

Sir and Lady Plumpy are self-designated semi-regulars. They come once or twice a month, walk in, ignore the hostess, and seat themselves wherever they please. Their preferred table is the four-top against the wall in Station One, the perfect vantage point to see and be seen. Station One is my station, so I am forced – I mean, I have the privilege of waiting on them. I have no choice; I’m the only waiter they allow near their table. I run upstairs to the dining room, and hop over to Sir Plumpy’s table, making sure to grab three or four quick breaths to calm myself. Sir Plumpy is pleasant enough, but he can be a petulant Baby Huey when things didn’t go his way. Some customers want to be waited on; some want their diapers changed; Plumpy wants both, easy on the talcum.

Lady Plumpy sits alone at the table. She is anything but plump. Her nickname is an unfortunate result of being married to Sir Plumpy. Tonight, she’s a bombshell, regally splayed in a creamy silk blouse and black pencil skirt, hair up and swirling, a twisty semi-translucent beehive of perfectly streaked blondness. Lips sealed, she sits quite still, staring at nothing. Something has pissed her off.

“Good evening,” I say, “How are we tonight?”

“That is a good question.”

I scan the dining room. No Sir Plumpy.

“By yourself tonight?”

The look she shoots me says, “Unfortunately, no,” but her mouth says, “He is in the bathroom. Please tell me it is clean.”

“I cleaned it myself,” I hadn’t, but lying is a waiter’s best tool.

“Thanks God.”

“A glass of Cristal?”

“Yes. And hurry. Oh, a Coke for himself.”

My throat clenches. We stopped carrying Coke. This could be trouble. Plumpy had a spastic fit the night we ran out of ketchup.

“Oh, but we don’t carry Coke anymore. We switched to Pepsi.”

Suddenly, like a button was pushed, a dozen or so minuscule beads of sweat pop up on her forehead.

“No no no no. He will not go for that–”

“Not to worry. I’ll spoon some sugar into the Pepsi. It’ll taste just like Coke. He’ll never know.”

“Let us hope not. On your way back with my Cristal, will you check the bathroom? Last week he got lost trying to get out.”

“I’ll send the busboy in to have a look–”

“Tell the busboy to be careful. He’s in a mood. That reminds me. Do you have ketchup tonight?”

“I will not make that mistake again. I have gobs of it.”

“You might as well tell the chef to begin cooking his steak now.”

“The chef has his blowtorch on standby.”

She chuckles. Ah, I’ve finally broken through to her. “It’s you and me against the Plump,” I say unto myself.

“Please,” she says, “hurry with my Cristal.”

“Yes, Mrs. Trump,” I say.