Chow Dear Cafe Septieme. It’s Over!
posted by August 24 at 17:10 PMon
Today, I came back to you, Café Septieme. You knew I would, you wretched bitch. I always do.
You know how desperately I want to love you.
And, hooray! I wasn’t moved to vomit at the sight of your new bright yellow walls! What a pleasant surprise. And you even got rid of that God awful organ for me! Hallelujah! And I was in a good mood, so I even decided to think that the, um, pastel colored paper lanterns that you’ve hung everywhere were quite jocular. Jocular!
But oh, Septieme. How you do disappoint.
Only after 15 solid minutes of sitting in, please note, a totally empty restaurant did our waiter finally deign to materialize. He was all smiles! Indeed, maybe a little too all smiles, frankly, for he fucked up our order good and proper. Where, for example, did that huge plate of strawberries and orange rounds come from? I demand an answer!
And then? Well, he left us to die.
Do you know what it feels like to be ignored, Café Septieme? To be completely invisible? To sit for eternity with an empty coffee cup and a bone-dry water glass and a big pile of strawberries that you didn’t order? To feel trapped? Neglected?
No. I didn’t think so.
Your entire staff, Septieme, seemed to have scampered into the walls. This isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened, either, you know. And we were so very alone, my friend and I (and the strawberries). It was like Night of the fucking Comet.
We finally got up to leave because a potential dine-n’-dash seemed the best-if-not-only way to summon the neglectful waiter’s attention. It did, praise Allah, and we were finally able to pay and get the hell out, but let me tell you this, Septieme, and please take it most seriously:
In over one hour, my coffee cup was never refilled. Not. Even. The fuck. Once.
I can forgive many things, Café Septieme. And I have. But this? To leave my poor cold cup hanging there at the end of the table—a promise never to be fulfilled, a pipe-dream, a lie, mocking me!—for an hour?
No, Septieme. No, damn you! This I cannot forgive. This I refuse to forgive.
I am so totally sick of your shit.