“NO!” yelled the waitress, “That is not yours it is HIS!” A group of friends and I visited a local Thai restaurant last night for an eve of joy, laughter, interest, food, and humiliation? My husband and I, as always, arrived as the rude friends, walking through the restaurant door thirty, no, forty-five minutes late with the “We got lost” excuse. Our pals graciously accepted our apology with the quaint expressions of happiness by simply seeing us. They had just finished picking through some overly fried popcorn chicken, gnawing on it and avoiding it’s likeness to chicken chewing gum. They offered us a piece and we joined them becoming cows chewing our cuds at the table. The waitress arrived, lovely and rushed. I antagonized our amigos’ four year old a few seats down from me by tossing his squeaky toy about and sending him crawling aimlessly around under the table. His parents, in the middle of their order, stopped to pull him out from beneath the table and the waitress waited impatiently. I felt quite bad for the interruption, yet I, as well as the boy, were so caught up in our fun, we didn’t care about the waiting waitress. About 20 minutes later, our orders were taken. We sat together talking, laughing loudly, chewing chicken gum, teasing the children, and discussing the improprieties of folks we know. Our table was located next to the door of the eatery, a magic porthole to another dimension, transporting folks that had been appearing consistently before us. These nomadic beings would await their tables, stare at us chewing our chicken gum, and listen to our talk of utter nonsense. Finally, a plate filled with beef, mushrooms, peppers, and onions, delicious, appeared before my friend sitting beside me. Happy to transition from chicken cud to real food, she interestedly began to scoop up the wonderful arrangement of goodness. Abruptly, the waitress shouted, “NO, that is not yours, that is HIS!” The waitress swiped the plate away from her clutches and served it to my husband. My friend sat alone and oblivious. I gave her a slap on the wrist and said, “How dare you, that was not yours!” We all laughed and she uttered an interesting comment, “It must be cultural that the man is served before the woman.” With that thought in mind, we peered at the other folks eating around us. Sure enough, men were eating and women were waiting. More food arrived, I was served, my friend’s husband was served, and the young ins were served, but my friend was not served. With pity, I gave her some of my food to tide her over. It had been a good fifteen minute wait before she received her plate. More nomadic beings appeared before the magical door, longingly watching us eat. I said to my pals, “I don’t like eating in front of hungry people.” The angel in me wanted to offer them something. The devil in me desired to take slow bites and tell them, “Oooh this food sure is good.” After our meal, my friend stated, “Well, I guess men, women, and children are served first while OLD women (being herself) are served last.” We all laughed and left the restaurant. It was a good dinner, strange and quite controversial, yet good.