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Have you ever been to a restaurant with a menu so extensive it's like the extended edition of a movie? You're sitting there, trying to decide between a burger or a steak, and suddenly, the waiter appears like Gandalf, saying, "You shall not pass until you make a decision!" And then there's the pressure of ordering something that sounds sophisticated. I see "quinoa" on the menu, and I'm like, "Is that a Pokémon or a side dish?" I feel like I need a degree in culinary linguistics just to decipher some menus.
And what's the deal with restaurant descriptions? They make everything sound so fancy. "Pan-seared salmon resting on a bed of organic microgreens." I'm thinking, "Is the salmon tired, or is it just taking a nap?
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Let's address the elephant in the room - or should I say, the food photographer at the table? We all have that friend who turns every meal into a full-blown photoshoot. I'm just trying to enjoy my burger, and they're treating it like it's the cover of a gourmet magazine. And the lighting has to be just right. They're standing on chairs, rearranging table settings, and asking the waiter if they can borrow a spotlight. I'm thinking, "Am I eating dinner, or am I an unwitting participant in a food-themed reality show?"
But hey, I get it. Presentation is key. Just remember, while you're staging the perfect Instagram photo, my food is getting cold, and I'm getting hungry. So, snap quickly, filter responsibly, and let's eat before the ice in my drink melts.
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You ever notice how eating out is like embarking on an epic food adventure? I mean, you sit down at a restaurant, and suddenly it's like you're Frodo Baggins about to take on the One Ring, except instead of a ring, it's a plate of nachos. And the menu, oh boy! It's like a quest log, filled with culinary challenges. You've got appetizers as your warm-up boss, salads as the maze you have to navigate, and then the main course is the final boss battle. And let's not even talk about dessert - that's the bonus round where you either emerge victorious or enter a sugar coma.
But the real conflict begins when the waiter asks if everything is okay. I'm like, "Yeah, everything's fine," but in my head, I'm thinking, "Should I confess that I don't know what 'truffle-infused' means, or just nod and hope for the best?
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Let's talk about the delicate dance that happens when the bill arrives. It's like a game of musical chairs, but instead of chairs, there are wallets, and the music is the awkward silence that follows the server dropping the bill on the table. You try to act nonchalant, but inside, you're doing mental math like you're auditioning for a role in a numbers-themed Broadway show. And then there's always that one friend who suggests splitting the bill evenly, even though they ordered the lobster and a bottle of champagne while you stuck to tap water and the cheapest appetizer.
It's a financial negotiation, and suddenly you're not just deciding who pays for dinner, you're deciding the fate of nations. "Should I offer to pay, or should I fake a bathroom break and hope someone else takes the hit?
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