Slapstick flouncing..
I took a date to a haughty restaurant in town. I was a spotty teenager, eager to make an impression, she was a brunette beauty with eyes like pools of hazel and a backside like a juicy peach.

Our waiter arrived, looked down his nose at us and enquired what he could get for us.
We scanned the menu, and ordered. He all but scoffed at our choice of wine, an 87 chablis, clearly not enough body and depth to go with a greek sauna of red snapper on a bed of hens teeth.

Throughout the evening he taunted us with his sneering manner, his lofty attitude and his holier than thou demeanour.

As he served us coffees, (we ignored his querilous demands to know whether he should source some nescafé from the local Happy Shopper for us), he presented us with the bill.

"Of course the tip *will* be extra... Sir"

I flipped, I stood up, demanded to speak to the manager and pushed him in the direction of the kitchens with little more than a gentle shove.

He slid on the damp floor only a few inches mind but with enough force into the passing waiter to upend the large tray he was carrying aloft and empty its contents on the couple at the next table.

The male partner stood up covered in beef broth and turnip stew, like a bedraggled Vinny Jones and took a swing at the waiter. It connected with his jaw and sent him careering back into our waiter who was now looking in a state of shock.

He fell backwards and put his hand out to rescue himself but all that was in his wake to break his fall was a hotplate.

He took off, squawking like a parrot, running to the kitchen doors which burst open just ahead of him. The combined force of both parties coming through the aperture caused both to recoil, involuntarily. Our waiter's head connected with the terracotta tiled floor and his lights went out.

The other party careered backward into the kitchen, doors closing after him.
We heard a clattering and banging, some howls of pain and fear, and the doors opened again.
This time three members of the kitchen staff followed by the hapless waiter ran out. Behind them flames licked up towards the kitchen roof.
The fire alarms sounded, and the sprinklers came on.

My enduring memory of that evening was the waiter who had been punched, nursing a bloody nose with one hand, and dragging our comatose waiter out by the collar, both bedraggled and looking forlorn.

We left the scene without paying the exhorbitant £120 bill. The management must've been gutted, because so was the restaurant!
(Vic Flange, Mon 26 May 2008, 14:40, Reply)