We pulled into the parking lot at Hank’s Home Town Café. Barbeque waft through the air. “Must be their night buffet.”
The maître d’ said, “Help yourself and find an empty seat.” My stomach set to growling. Now I couldn’t wait to eat.
Our waitress had a voice that poked and stabbed at every nerve. She shrieked aloud, “We have a complimentary house hors d’oeuvre.”
“Your night buffet,” is what I said. “That’s how we’d like to dine.” She hollered out, “Two house buffets. You’d better get in line.
“We grabbed our plates and scurried to the barbeque buffet. But what we then encountered left me speechless, so to say.
The pans of meat were empty. Were we doomed for barbeque? ‘Cuz there weren’t a single bite of beefy meat left there to chew.
We looked for mashed potatoes. No potatoes in the pan. And the skillets of their cottage fries would leave a hungry man.
Thank heaven all the broccoli and cauliflower were gone. My last adventure with those two spent all night in the john.
Green bean casserole has always been a favorite of my own. But the pan was scraped much cleaner than two buzzards on a bone.
So, we worked our way right to the end of Hank’s no-food buffet. And there we saw four glasses of some yogurt peach parfait.
We gobbled down our parfait. I’d say faster than Mach 2. Then hurried back for seconds before someone else came through.
I asked our waitress. “Where’s the cook? I wonder if he knows?” That’s when she hollered out so loud. “Buffet’s about to close!”
I blurted out. “The buffet’s closed? We didn’t get to eat!” She pointed to our parfait glass. “You wolfed down our best treat.”
So, I walked up to the cashier. He just might have been the cook. I hated to admit it, but it looked like we’d been took.
I handed him a fifty for a dinner I’d call strange. And sure enough we paid full price. One nickel was my change.
