“Very good, Mr. President,” said the waiter. “Anything else?”
Donald Trump perused the menu with a squint and baby finger, lips pursed like a leather wallet, a little bead of sweat trickling down the rollercoaster of his jowl.
The steak was probably enough, but when you’re Leader of the Free World, who’s to tell you where your limits are? Not the press, Trump chuckled to himself. He’d have to remember that one.
The waiter leaned forward.
“Sir?”
“Does the steak come with fries?”
“Why, yes it does, sir. Triple-cooked in goose fa-.”
“Once is enough,” Trump muttered. “Once is enough, and make sure they don’t salt ’em.”
“Very good, Mr. President.”
“And bring us some mustard to dunk ’em in.”
“Mustard. Sure thing.”
Trump squinted at the menu again. These damn fancy places with their tiny letters.
What was wrong with big, American letters? Damn continental places. No wonder it was all going to hell over there, no one can read a damn thing.
“We’ll take the… sushi platter, but make sure all the fish is cooked through. Raw fish, bad. Very bad.”
“Very good, Mr. President.”
“And no wasabi.”
“Very good, Mr. President.”
“And make sure we’ve got forks. Chopsticks, no chopsticks.”
“Yes sir, Mr. President. No chopsticks.”
“Do you have tacos?”
“Of course, Mr. President. Authentic Mexica-” The waiter caught himself just in time.
“But the hard kind? The crunchy shell kind?”
The waiter looked over his shoulder at the restaurant manager, keenly observing the exchange.
He was nodding with the fury of a man primed to do any and everything to please the President, even if it meant gunning his rusted-out Buick to the nearest supermarket to snatch a pack of Old El Paso taco kits.
“We sure do, Mr. President.”
“Fantastic. Fabulous. Eight of those, with extra mild salsa, and if I see as much as a drop of guacamole on that plate, I’ll have you thrown in jail.”
Trump laughed. He turned to the table, who then also laughed.
“Very good, sir,” the waiter said nervously, three times underlining the ‘NO’ of ‘NO GUACAMOLE’.
“Pizza!” Trump exclaimed. “We gotta have pizza. You got pizza?”
“We got pizza, Mr. President.”
“OK, we’re gonna take a cheese pizza, with sweetcorn, pineapple, tunafish, capers, and then go ahead and drop a bunch of spinach on top of there.”
“Sure… sure thing, Mr. President.” The waiter began to sweat. “That’s a cheese pizza with sweetcorn… pineapple…”
“…tunafish.”
“Tunafish… capers… and a whole bunch of spinach. Sure, no problem. No problem at all.”
“And we’ll take a plate of cookies for dessert. And some orange juice to dunk them in.”
The waiter’s pen froze on the pad at the top of the C. He tried, but he couldn’t see the crescent through. His hand wouldn’t allow it.
“Cookies… and orange juice… sir?”
“Cookies and orange juice,” Trump replied. “Very nice.”
With all the will in his writing hand, the waiter furrowed his brow and scratched the order down, as if he were carving his Last Will and Testament into bare stone.
“And that…” Trump paused, for wheezing breath as much as effect.
“…will be all.”
“Very good, Mr. President.” The waiter breathed a sigh of relief, and turned. “And for you, sir?”
“I’ll just lick the plates once he’s done,” Nigel replied.
