Rant romaine, or, I'm Not Going To Eat Any Fucking Iceberg

Why do I get attitude from the servers who run the grill when I request romaine for my gyros? Yes, I know it's a premium ingredient--that's why I want it. I'm buying a premium sandwich after all. I don't know why the hell the Powers That Be declared that the Buffalo Chicken Wrap shalt bear Romaine whereas the lowly Chicken Gyros shalt have none, but how much of a difference in price can there really be? Whatever it is, I'd gladly pay it. Besides, I never ask for the tomatoes that come with the gyros, so it may even be a net savings for your bottom line.

I knew I was going to have trouble with today's server since he wouldn't let the woman before me have a pita instead of a bun for her grilled chicken. He said, "If they see that, they're not gonna charge you $3.99, they'll charge you whatever [the gyros] costs." She replied, "That's fine," but he ignored her and put it on a bun anyway. So, of course, when I politely make my request he has to sternly point out, "I'll do it, but it isn't supposed to come like that. It's supposed to be for [the Buffalo Wrap." Yeah, well, it's for the garbage if you don't use it all up in the next hour or so before the cafe closes, since it's all cut up already. But I stiffly said, "I'm aware of that, sir." Not, "WHAT THE FUCK? IT'S FUCKING LETTUCE YOU GODDAMN JERK! It's not like I fucking asked you to JERK OFF INTO THE FUCKING PITA! Wanker!"

Maybe it's time to start getting the stir-fry again. Whatever I ask for, they just do it. How hard is that?

The only guapo here is in my hand

Yesterday, welcomerain asked me, "What do you have the handsome Japanese peanut with you?"

There's a simple explanation, really.

Earlier that afternoon, I was outside the supermercado Del Rey at Broadway and Foster waiting for a bus. No sooner had I boarded, though, then I discovered that (1) my pass had expired; (2) my backup card was invalid; and (3) I had only one single and no coins. So I popped into the market for a few sundries to break a yuppie food stamp--just as well since I wanted a snack to supplement the Bear Naked which had been my only food so far that day. Of the El Guapo products hanging near the registers, the cacahuates japoneses looked the most benign--plain old peanuts with a crunchy, largely-unsweetened coating.

Of course, this being Sunday afternoon, the lines were slow. I was stuck right behind a creepy guy who was buying a dozen bottles of livid green Gatorade. He wasn't really that bad looking overall, but he had a nasty lascivious curl to his lip. The first time he made eye contact, any wisp of attraction drained from my body. The second time, I was like Please don't talk to me. By the third time, I kept as much distance as was socially acceptable given an entire family buying party supplies--including a honkin' big piñata--right behind me. We were slowed by some disagreement or confusion ahead of us, so he sighed and seemed to be trying to build some empathy on our common plight, but I would have none of it. (That's when distracting, rambuctious kids are actually kind of a godsend.)

It was another sticky quarter-of-an-hour before I caught the next bus, but there was milanesa de res at the end of the trip. Go me!