"Can I get you started with anything to drink?" asks your waiter who introduces himself as Daniel. I don't know. Can you? The retort comes naturally. You blame your teachers for that.

"Just water for now," you reply, knowing you won't order anything different later. He hands you a plastic-covered menu with black leather borders--a detail meant to elevate the dining experience, but the deep smell of spilled spaghetti sauce and soggy coleslaw spoils it. He tells you that he'll be back in a couple of minutes to take your order.

You fold your arms and rest them on the table. Immediately, the uneven legs tilt toward you and you quickly release your weight from the table just in time to save the little porcelain box of pink, brown, and white sugar packets from falling off the edge. You wish you had a booth. You're never given a booth. Perhaps they're too good for you. The headboards were a warm maroon and had a classic ivory "V back" pattern. The matching hilled seats were firm and covered in upholstery fabric--the kind that sounded like the scratching of a record when you ran your nails against it. They sat along the sidewalls, and in the middle of each section hung a large oval mirror with a half-moon sconce on either side that flushed the entire diner in a soft yellow haze. Without the tables and chairs, the place could have passed as the bathroom of a fancy restaurant. But you suppose even that would be too good for you.

The bell on the door jingles. A man holds up four fingers and you hear a disgustingly cheery "right this way!" The kitchen door behind the counter where they keep oily saran-wrapped muffins for individual sale opens with a fast whoosh. Between the openings, you hear the shuffling of crisscrossing footsteps, the clanking of pans hitting the stove, and the muffled shouts of orders being fired. A little boy at the table to your right is drumming on his plate with the bottom-heavy silverware. He ends his solo with the clattering cymbal sound of his spoon hitting the floor.

You bring your attention back to the sticky menu in your hand. You scan the front and back for "pancakes" until you realize that Daniel has given you the lunch menu. Seriously, Daniel? It's only 11:00 a.m. He's back with your water. It's been ten minutes. A lemon wedge hangs limply on the rim of the glass--a lame attempt at making your generic beverage less boring. Daniel asks if you're ready to order, and you apologize before telling him you're not.

"No worries! I'll come back in a couple of minutes." He comes back fifteen minutes later.

Classic.