The movies and television have never failed to give us memorable waitresses over the years, from “Kiss my grits!” Flo to the Hold the Chicken Lady from Five Easy Pieces. Whether it’s a high-end establishment or fleabag diner, we have borne witness to their patience, wit, unbridled sass, and unfailing ability to screw up even the simplest of orders. Few may be worth a damn, and even fewer deserving of what amounts to the low end of the tip scale, but we like them just the same. I say like because, until 2016’s Hell or Hell Water, I had never before been in love. Deep, unshakable love. Ladies and gentlemen, introducing: “T-Bone Waitress.”
Naturally, she has a name, but why bother? For 44 years, the one and only measure of her existence has been to serve. More to the point, serving T-bone steaks. Not chicken, not sandwiches, and sure as shit not trout. Just T-bone steaks. Cooked medium rare because anything above or below would be an imposition. You think we have time to re-train our cooks? They’re locked the fuck in, and have the process timed down to the millisecond. A customer may try to slip in a preference, but she’ll be on that like stink on shit. “That weren’t no question,” she barks, and the customer is rightfully reduced to blubbering mush. You get what you get. Having it your way is for Burger King, not T-Bone’s personal fiefdom.
And then there’s the matter of the sides. A baked potato is mandatory, like stifling heat on a West Texas afternoon. But what about the green beans and corn on the cob? Once again, you’d think you had a choice. Merely an illusion, I’m afraid. Here, it’s what you don’t want. The lesser of two evils, like everything else in the Lone Star State. Because a man doesn’t come to a greasy spoon for explorations of culinary nuance. You’re here, you’re hungry, and we’ve got a freezer packed to the fucking gills. Either help us reduce inventory or take your ass to Applebee’s. If there is one. In this small town, TBW’s inflexible arrogance is almost certainly the result of a lack of competition. Be the only game in town and you can spit on options with impunity.
Naturally, customers are looking for something to wash it all down, so you’d better like iced tea. It may or may not be sweetened, and in nearly a half-century, no one has had the courage to ask. And sip carefully, friend, because we’re not in the land of free refills. TBW has to move tables, so the faster you finish, the better. Anyone that can last this long at anything isn’t one to give you space. Eat, but keep one eye on the shadows. Her glare will let you know when it’s time to depart. My guess is, it will be sooner than that.
Whenever I encounter a one scene wonder, my thoughts always travel to backstory. What we don’t see. A personal life when the meat isn’t sizzling. In TBW’s case, a hint as to why she – or any living, breathing human being for that matter – would waitress for 44 uninterrupted years. I say uninterrupted because this lady ain’t doing sick days. A vacation? Not on your life. A day missed is a day when some smart ass might put in for a hamburger and send the whole enterprise into chaos. Worst case scenario, a fill-in may take sympathy and deliver the goods. With hamburgers come fries. And condiments. And like hell I’m writing up a purchase order for lettuce, because lettuce leads to salads, and Communism don’t play well on the prairie. Keep it simple. And keeping watch every single goddamn day is the only way to enforce an unbreakable edict. TCB, the TBW way.
To see this wonderful scene, click here
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