COM'AWN, BE A SPORT

Night: moonlit. Air: balmy. Characters: a mom-and-son duo, a waiter and a few revellers. Time: 9 in the evening. Place: Antonio’s. Props: a reserved table for fourteen, ornate chairs, a table for two, sparkling glasses of wine, cutlery, etc., etc.
All in all, the situation is as smooth as the surface of a hard-boiled egg tantalisingly touching the tip of a tongue. (okay, okay, have gone overboard with the alliteration)

Mom: …so what will you have, K?

Sonnie: Pork lasagne.

Mom: Great choice. Good. Now be patient till it comes. Excuse me…(to the waiter)

Waiter (bespectacled, belching and, therefore, blasphemous): Eeyes, Mum, er…Maam.

Mom (Furrowed and fuming): A pork lasagne and a spaghetti carbonara, please.

Waiter leaves with the menu cards. Revellers at the next table have begun eating, drinking and singing and can be seen revelling at varied levels of excitement. Ten minutes lapse before our bespectacled, bumbling waiter returns with the food.

Waiter: Theere Mam, and heere’s yourrr lasagne, Sir.

Mom and Sonnie: Thank you.

Waiter: Buon appetito!

He leaves. Sonnie cuts into the lasagne with a knife and removes the layer of pasta on top to discover spinach inside.

Sonnie: O Mom, where’s my pork? This stuff is green.

Mom: Wait. Don’t do anything. Excuse me…(at the bespectacled one)

Waiter: Eeyes, Mum. (Cloud in the head showing, ‘Sheet, noth again!)

Mom: I think there has been a mistake. I ordered a pork lasagne.
This is vegetarian.

Waiter (bumbling more than ever): Sorry Mum, biiig misstaake.

He then takes the plate of Lasagne, sliced open, and promptly serves it to a lady singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at the next table.

Then all singing stops together.


Here’s a gross one for all cheese lovers. Brit tragic hero while referring to a bad tummy: ‘A grunt and a squeeze,/ And out it comes like melted cheese.’