TRYING A NEW breakfast place. I tell the cashier, “Extra crispy bacon.”
“Extra bacon,” she says.
“No, not extra bacon. Extra crispy bacon,” I say.
A fast-paced volley of shouted Spanish follows, between the cook, the cashier, and the server. A customer in line behind me chimes in. He is either describing my order to the cashier or telling her about a dream he had involving velvet chickens. I’ve got to learn Spanish.
The cashier turns her green gaze back to me.
“Extra bacon,” she says.
“Um, no,” I say.
“No bacon,” she says.
“Yes, bacon,” I say. “Spinach mushroom omelette, bacon — no toast, no potatoes.”
I will never be able to make it up to her, or to the other customers in line behind me. Or to the pig, quite frankly.
“Extra bacon,” she announces.
I say, “Thank you” and leave a tip in the jar.
