The Ordering Game
About ten years ago, my brother and I invented the now-infamous Ordering Game.
The Ordering Game, at its inception, was benevolent—a public service to those long-suffering waiters who had had to deal with our parents' incompetent ordering practices for years of Sunday breakfasts. While otherwise normal, considerate, and competent people, my parents cannot order to save their lives. And, maybe because we've both waited tables in our time, Charlie and I find their amateurish restaurant antics cringe-inducing.
My father is fussy—"half a cup of coffee, please, with skim milk; dry toast—and can I get fried tomato instead of bacon?"
Our mother, meanwhile, is a ditherer, who has the annoying habit of not even glancing at her menu until the server appears to take her order. When he does, chaos ensues. "Hm, what have we here? That looks good ... do you recommend the omelet? Oh, but that’s pretty tempting, too ... hmm, let’s see ... I just can’t decide."
My brother and I are forced to look on in mute anguish and shame.
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