She’s a little peculiar but then again, most people are. It’s one of the things about human nature that I so adore—how unusual and interesting each of us is.
She looked like winter Barbie—bleached blonde hair, hot pink lipstick, white marshmallow jacket, thin, angular features. She pulled off her Beats headphones and sat the bar, asked for a menu, ordered. For someone so peculiar things were going well…a little too well.
The expeditor set down her plate of bacon and eggs, walked away. She looked down in disgust. Raised her upper lip as if she had caught wind of a bad smell.
What is this?
Uh…
So here’s the moment, when, as a server, I can positively say that I do not, in any way, understand.
Your breakfast?
My voice raised an octave at the end was this a joke was it a loaded question was she being serious I really couldn’t tell.
No, what is this? I mean, you call this bacon?
And I looked down at the plate where four perfectly arranged strips of pork sat glistening in their fragrant baths of grease.
What’s the problem?
What’s the problem? My god.
She threw up her hands. Looked up to the ceiling hoping for some sort of divine intervention and my jaw must have been resting on the bartop itself by this point.
Everywhere I go in this town it’s the same, she says, picking up the bacon with her dainty, pink manicured nails. She waved it back and forth in the air; little splashes of grease speckled my face. Obviously no one taught her the whole don’t play with your food thing.
This isn’t bacon this is ridiculous how could you call this bacon I mean seriously. No one knows how to cook anything around here this is insane I am so beyond disgusted right now.
The bacon continued waving like a flag of surrender it was begging to be rescued, redeemed, saved from the claw like grip around its throat.
And let me tell you something: I’ve seen bad bacon. In a busy rush the kitchen will throw anything out just to see if it will stick. But this wasn’t bad bacon. It was perfect. Pristine. Positively mouth watering.
Let me fix it, I said, still incredulous. I can cook it any way you’d like I just need to know how you want it made–I’m happy to redo it.
No, no you don’t get it. This is unacceptable this whole town is unacceptable (insert personal statement here: I totally agree with that last sentiment). I can’t get bacon anywhere.
And she threw the bacon down and shoved her plate at me across the bar and proclaimed her “doneness” unto any who would listen and little hash brown snowflakes fell upon the lacquered surface. She put her headphones back on her head and gathered her purse and stormed out of the bar. And there I stood, flaked in specks of bacon grease, smelling positively delicious I am an aphrodisiac for burly lumberjacks everywhere quick someone get me a flannel has anyone seen my bear trap I’m about to catch me a man.
Some guy said what a bitch and some old lady stood up from her table, just to give me a hug and tell me how beautiful I was.

But as for me? Well I was grinning ear to ear because I may not be clairvoyant, but I can see some damned good bacon in my future.