“I’ll have the soup,” a customer told me as I scribbled down his order on a piece of note paper. If only I knew the events that were about to unfold.
There are all sorts of knick knacks scattered around the cafe were I work. A key chain from Vietnam, a mini double-decker tour bus from London, and some sort of Hessian sack from Brazil, I believe. And there are three little toy pigs, dressed incredibly dapper and cute, with magnetic hands and feet so they cling to one of the shelves which holds the bags of coffee beans. Directly beneath that shelf is the soup.
I had the ladle in one hand, and a bright red bowl in the other, which I filled to the brim with today’s soup special: potato and leek. I set the bowl down on a plate and reached for the lid of the pot. And then. And then. It happened in slow motion. I couldn’t do anything but watch in horror as the little pig with the mustache and the vest and the magnetic hands fell straight down into the pot. “Uuuummmmm, Rach?” I said. “I think you might wanna come look at the soup.” She looked at me quizzically for a minute, before walking over and laughing her head off. I fished the pig out, and sitting there on the chopping board it looked like…well, let’s just say that potato and leek does not the most appealing colour for something to be drowned in. It was a puddle of mess. The poor thing.
That’s when Rachel decided to take a picture and label it “Now, with bacon!”
Al rinsed the pig like a sponge and put it out back to dry. The customer got his soup, because I’d put it in the bowl before any of this had happened. But seriously. This is something that would only happen to me, or I assume a very minor niche of human beings.