The Roar Shack

It was like any other bistro on the promenade, with waiters in ill-fitting tuxedos and loud, clod-hopping footwear, completely destroying any element of surprise. At noontime, regulars filed in, finding their usual seats. Newcomers always had trouble understanding the rhythm of the place. A starving tourist wandered in. He was met by the host, who instructed him to sit wherever. The Tourist got the sense that this is what he really meant. He could sit wherever. Chairs, floor, even behind the mysterious “Employees Only” door. 

Nonetheless, he picked a spot by the window, a prime people-watching position for the lonely diner. The waiter arrived with a long menu and handed it to the Tourist. Something was terribly wrong. He couldn’t read a single item. Each line was smeared with what appeared to be expensive black ink. This had to be some mistake. 

“Excuse me, garçon, my menu is illegible. Do you have another one?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The waiter handed him another menu, this one entirely smeared, arguably worse than the first one.

“I don’t understand. How can I order if I can’t read a thing?”

“You know how.”

“Any specials?”

“Nope. What are you in the mood for?”

“I’d like a burger.” 

“Very well.”

“Do you do burgers?”

“We do whatever you want, sir.” 

He walked away, leaving The Tourist, even more puzzled by the interaction. Leaning over to a neighboring table, he tapped one of the men on the shoulder.

“That salad looks good. Is that a special?”

The man giggled. His partner giggled. Even their toy poodle yipped in a way that might have been described as a canine guffawing. 

“Thanks.”

The food arrived without incident. The Tourist ordered whatever he wanted. More of everything, as he said several times to several people not his waiter. When the check landed it was perfectly legible, in the high triple digits. To add to his distress, it said, in clear bold letters, “cash only.” The waiter walked over to The Tourist.

“Is there a problem?”

“Had I know that water refills were 8 dollars each, I might have gone easy on the pitchers for every table.”

“At the Roar Shack, diners see what they want to see.”

The Tourist paused, thought about it for a minute and plopped down two crisp twenties.

“That seems good. You good?”

“Good.”