OK. So we all know Hank. I’m sorry, Henri, our French Canadian waiter. He is the consummate professional. Catering to the consumers need, answering every beckoning call, filling your water, and claiming eight percent. He is our hero. He can do no wrong, right? Wrong.

You see, I’ve waited on a few tables in my time, so I know what’s going on backstage. To the layman, that would be the kitchen, but you see, Henri is heavily involved in community theater. This enables him to express himself in several ways. The dining room is his stage, and the customer is a critic for the Village Voice. It also allows him to disappear completely.

Have you ever been out on a dining experience, and when the server brings the bread to the table, and there is only 3 pieces of bread when there are two of you? And better yet, have you ever questioned the motive behind that? Hank suffers from post sibling rivalry syndrome. He is constantly trying to create a conflict. This is how he creates strife.

As a gentleman you want to offer the bread to your companion. But you’re hungry, right? So you let her have the second piece, and you’re frustrated. And if YOU take the bread, then you become the selfish jerk, and you won’t even taste the bread. You’ll taste the night ahead............and it tastes lonely. Very, very lonely.

Well, our Hank can help, right? He will bring more bread, pronto. Wrong again. He has vanished. He has committed the most vicious crime to the connoisseur of fine dining. (or lazy bastard who can’t cook, however you’d like to look at it) He has become what we all dread.

The Phantom waiter.

You try to flag him down, to no avail. You grow impatient, but guys, stay calm. You must look cool in your time of need. Don’t worry about your date, she’s fine. That bitch is filling her face like there’s no tomorrow. You try to stop the token cute waitress who has no idea what a balsamic reduction is, but knows that Gritty’s Black Fly stout is a damn fine pilsner. What she doesn’t know is the current location of Henri. You calmly look to your date, who’s wiping her face, so she can wipe all the food off her face! You start to lose it, mouthing every Biddeford slur in your dialect, and you start to crumble. Crumble. Crumble like the bread between her fingers.

Finally, a mildly refreshed phantom Henri reappears from his slumber, apparently he was putting the finishing touches on his new TV pilot, “Hangin’ with Felipe” and comes bearing gifts. Your frikking dinner. By now it doesn’t matter. You want your food. The battle is forgotten. But Billie Jean the bread bimbo has to throw her two cents, right? She looks confused. She gets lost in Hank’s equally dazed eyes and has only one thing to ask.

“Weren’t the salads supposed to come before dinner?”

Check please