When I was a little kid my mother used to take me to a comfort food chain restaurant called Bakers Square. They were known for their delicious pies; in turn it was all I wanted to eat. At three years old I knew what I wanted every week and nothing else would suffice, one delicious piece of cherry pie. We would go the pie joint every week and a cute waitress with a ponytail and a tan would bring me my pie and smile at me.
I remember sitting in the booth on a cold day around Christmas. I stared at the glass case of pie slowly turning clock wise in the heat lamp, crust glistening, calling my name. The ponytail was not there this week; a chubby redhead with squeaky shoes was in her place. She kept zipping by and I would ask her, “Cherry pie please.” She ignored me. “Cherry pie please.” She ignored me again. My mom told me to be quiet, that “This was a restaurant “ and I had to be good. Well, I had been here before and I knew that all the creepy waitress had to do was open the spinning glass case and give me a piece of glistening cherry pie. Just like the cute one with the ponytail had done the weeks before. It seemed like pretty common sense to me. Well, she was busy and kept waddling by me. “CHERRY PIE!!” I yelled. Mom scolded me again, “JYAG this is a restaurant and you can’t act like that.” The chunky server squeaked by again ignoring my demands on purpose. I noticed she had a weird mustache and I didn’t like her. “ I WANT CHERRY PIE!” I screamed at her. “Please be quiet, this is a restaurant.” My mom said in a low voice. I climbed up on the table and screamed at the top of my lungs “THIS IS NOT A RESTARUNT!” I got my pie.
