Ariel again. It’s not that she’s barking orders—on the contrary, her voice is so sweet and feminine and f*****g princess perfect that it’s a miracle I can even find it in me to be offended.
But something about the way she keeps lunging in just when I expect her to sit back and be waited upon pricks my irritation.
The server is every bit as taken aback as I am. “I’m sorry—five of what precisely, madam?”
“Those.” She points a manicured nail rather rudely at the next table over. The couple there are both in evening attire that would’ve been “old school” a century ago. They must be pushing ninety years old at least. They blink at her in slow confusion.
“Five… osetra caviar portions?” the server struggles to clarify.
“Is there a problem with that?” she asks.
He shakes his head in a hurry,
