Now that I’ve calmed down about it, several months after the fact…
… I can tell y’all why I’m never eating at 59 Diner, on Shepherd and 59, again.
I had just recovered from my gall bladder removal surgery and was looking forward to eating a chili dog without subsequent pain. In fact, it was all I could think about. Chili dog. Chili dog. Chili dog.
Who had the best chili dogs in town? 59 Diner, I decided. The rest of their food wasn’t the greatest, and the service was uneven lately, but you could always count on them for a good chili dog.
My boyfriend drove me and the kids to 59 Diner. Very slowly, I made my way to our table. My abdomen was still a little sore from the surgery, making it slightly difficult to walk, but I didn’t mind. The pain would be worth the pleasure. The pleasure of the chili dog, I mean.
Service was slower than ever. Before our waitress made it over to take our order, we had plenty of time to watch an older waitress visit with her family. Apparently, the woman at the next table over was Older Waitress’s daughter. The man there was Older Waitress’s son-in-law, or else her daughter’s-baby-daddy. The kid was the grandkid, spoiled and loud. Older Waitress visited with them for moments at a time, continually interrupting herself to bring to the table yet another cherry lemonade, strawberry milkshake, rootbeer float, etc.
Before our waitress even came to take our order, Older Waitress ran back to the kitchen and out again in order to bring her family a triumphant platter of chili cheeseburgers and chili fries. I think there may have also been a bowl of chili. Or a chili milkshake or something.
“Man, they must really like chili,” I remember remarking to my boyfriend.
Finally, finally, finally, our waitress dragged her maudlin little self to our table.
“Chili dog with chili cheese fries!” I cried, clapping my hands like a little girl with a new doll who has recently undergone gall bladder removal surgery. My boyfriend and kids ordered this, that, and the other. The melancholy waitress disappeared.
Then she returned, like a sad-ass little genie.
“We’re out of chili,” she said.
“What?” I didn’t know what she meant. How could they be out of chili? Were we or were we not at a diner?
“They ran out,” she said.
“Well, can they make some more?” I asked. “Can they just open another can?”
“Uh… I can check.” She went to do so. She returned. “Nope. They don’t have any more.” No apology. No rain check. Just that.
At that point I looked over at Older Waitress and her family. The baby sucked on a bottle. Their chili fries were picked at, the chili cheeseburger uneaten. They’d gorged themselves on free milkshakes, no doubt, and were unable to swallow the rest.
I rose from the bench seat, a crossbow in my hands.
“No, baby, no,” said my boyfriend.
I had to order a cheeseburger. It tasted okay, but probably only because I was starving by then. Between bites, I told my boyfriend everything I intended to do. Write a letter. Call the district manager. Get the Older Waitress fired. Submit her grandchild’s name to the Maury Povich Show for DNA testing.
At the end, I made the only promise that came true.
“We’re never eating here again.”
We haven’t. Good riddance. Don’t mess with me when I’m hungry. Don’t interfere with my post-surgery cravings.
Sadly, however, I haven’t yet found a replacement place to eat chili dogs. People in Houston, share suggestions, please.
