"Welcome to Chez Drama"
Chez Drama was supposed to be a classy place. The kind with gold-accented menus, water served in wine glasses, and a piano player who only knows one song but plays it like he's in a life-or-death movie scene.
But the night Table 12 came in? Everything went off the rails.
It started innocently.
The host, Jeremy, greets them with a polite, “Good evening, party of four?”
The woman in the fur coat replies, “Five. One of us is spiritually vegan and doesn’t count themselves when we’re near meat.”
Jeremy blinks. “Right… this way.”
They are seated. The spiritual vegan starts humming to her glass of water because it “deserves positive energy.”
The waiter, Kyle—just two days on the job and already questioning every career decision—approaches with his notepad.
“Hi folks! Can I get you started with drinks?”
Man in a fedora: “I’ll have a decaf cappuccino, oat milk, foam sculpted into a flamingo.”
Woman in fur coat: “I want red wine, but it must be from a vineyard that practices yoga.”
Spiritual Vegan: “Do you have water that’s only been touched by moonlight?”
Teen with AirPods: “Do you guys have Monster Energy? No? What about emotional Monster Energy?”
Kyle writes “CHAOS” in his notepad and smiles professionally.
When it’s time to order food:
Fedora Man: “I’ll have the steak tartare, but can the steak be cooked medium rare?”
Kyle, confused: “Sir… steak tartare is raw.”
“Right, but I don’t trust raw meat. So just like… raw-cooked.”
Fur Coat: “I want a Caesar salad. But instead of romaine, use arugula. Instead of Caesar dressing, use hummus. And instead of chicken, add despair.”
Spiritual Vegan: “I’ll take the air-fried mushrooms. But no oil, salt, or mushrooms. Just air.”
Kyle: “So… nothing?”
“Exactly. But plate it like a forest scene.”
Teenager: “Do you have anything gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free, flavor-free?”
Kyle points at the table. “This napkin?”
“Perfect.”
Meanwhile, the couple at Table 7 is proposing marriage, someone at Table 3 just found a fly in their soup and is trying to train it, and the health inspector walks in to “just check the vibe.”
Kitchen chaos starts erupting. The chef is screaming, “Who ordered NOTHING but wants it medium rare?!”
Back at Table 12, things go from weird to philosophical.
Fur Coat: “Excuse me, Kyle? This wine tastes like 2020.”
Kyle: “What does that mean?”
“Unpleasant. Slightly traumatic. Hints of despair.”
Fedora Man: “I need my meal redone. The steak didn’t look me in the eye before dying.”
Spiritual Vegan: “Your menu said ‘farm-to-table’ but didn’t mention the emotional journey of the zucchini.”
Kyle has now unlocked a new stress response: involuntary jazz scatting.
Ska-da-bee-bop—What?!
As Kyle serves their forest-plated air, he trips and lands in the fondue fountain. He stares up at the ceiling fan, whispering, “Take me now, Parmesan gods.”
The manager comes over and says, “Is there a problem, sir?”
Kyle: “Yes. This is a restaurant. But they think it's a spa, a therapy session, and a séance.”
The manager turns to Table 12 and says with deep regret:
“We will now be adding a 'nonsense surcharge' to your bill. It’s new. And spiritual.”
The bill arrives, and the table gasps.
Fur Coat: “$312?! For what?”
Kyle smiles sweetly: “For the steak, the air, the emotion, the water blessed by Jupiter, and my will to live. Tip is not included but spiritually encouraged.”
They storm out, leaving behind one napkin and a half-eaten crouton.
As the door closes, Kyle whispers, “We lost good soldiers tonight.”