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She's the DJ, not the Wrapper

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By R.
Because some idiot scheduled J and I in a 12:30pm meeting, we were forced into an hourly worker's lunch today. And because J can't eat at TDM (one of the best, fastest lunches in town) without becoming violently ill, we hit up the Pita Pit.

Today the Pit was on backward. The Frau was not at the register - - she was rolling pitas. And the guy who is usually rolling pitas - - was at the register. It had the same kind of feeling as putting your underwear on inside out by mistake (or on purpose - I'm not going to judge you).

The roller - with his one job - couldn't call out the orders properly - chickenCeSAR! was more like CHICKEN-cesar. And the Frau cannot (and should not) roll a decent pita to save her life. All the "honey" and "sweetie" in the world only creates an awkward diversion as she drowns your hummus pita in Dijon mustard, it doesn't make it any sweeter to eat. And while the she's busy distracting you with pet names, she's murdering the wrap job on your pita - I saw one freshly wrapped pita that looked like it was slowly exploding out onto its owner's sleeve (luckily, not mine).

All in all - it was still good, albeit - messy, and my tummy is still burning from all that mustard, but at least I feel like the Frau loves me - it's filling that DeDe-shaped hole in my heart that Blue C made.


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