"Would you like to sit at the bar -- or would you prefer a booth?"

"A booth." I tell the hostess, "Don't want any strange women hitting on me."

I'm here at Applebee's for a quick bite -- and to jot some notes on the novel that's been haunting me.

"Your server will be with you in a moment." The hostess says, slipping me a menu boldly emblazoned with the words, "WELCOME BACK."

"How'd you know?"

"Know what?" The hostess asks, puzzled.

"That I've been here before. Am I under surveillance?"

It's a minute or two before my server arrives. He introduces himself. Pleasant chap -- though he looks like the bass player in a white supremacist hate-rock band. I look around the near-vacant dining room; four other servers -- all attractive young women -- and I'm stuck with Vin Diesel. Retribution for my earlier wisecrack. I have the server start me with a coffee while I peruse the menu.

"This item here," I say, when he brings the java, "The 'Bourbon Black & Bleu Burger' . . ."

"Oh yeah -- big seller."

"No . . . The word 'blue.' You spelled it B-L-E-U -- French."

"That's correct."

"Why?"

"I believe the cheese is French."

"I don't care. This is America . . ."


I have a new server. A tall, 'suicide blonde' with a Russian accent (let's call her 'Nastassja').

"So, have you decided?" Nastassja asks.

"I'll have the 'Black & Bleu Burger' -- medium; side of fries -- and I'd like that with AMERICAN cheese."

Nastassja freshens my coffee and places the order. While I'm scribbling in my pocket notepad, my burger arrives. I take a bite. There's a problem.

"Excuse me, Miss; I ordered a medium burger, this is well-done -- and I asked for American cheese, not blue."

Nastassja apologizes and has the kitchen fire another burger. I sip coffee and continue scribbling in my notepad. The replacement burger arrives. Once again, I catch a whiff of blue cheese: the pungent aroma of mold spores reminiscent of foul death. Rather than lose my cool, I go to my "Happy Place." I'm on a Blue Lagoon-like island with Nastassja -- who lies naked in the coils of a giant python. The anger management classes are really paying off.

"Blue cheese again." I smile, "Keep this up and you're gonna lose your Michelin star."

"I'm so sorry." Nastassja says, with a stricken look, "The cook is having a bad day."

"Is he French?"

"He's from Nicaragua."

"Then he has no ax to grind. Let's try this again . . ."

Third time proves to be a charm. Good ol' American cheese. Tho the the burger is again overcooked, I say nothing to Nastassja (whose fragile emotional state I'm beginning to fear for).

"Everything good?" She asks, as I'm finishing up.

Mouth full, I nod.

"Care for some desert?"

"Just the check, thanks."

Nastassja rings me up; leaves me with the check.

"Excuse me, Miss!" I say, as she starts away, "There's a problem with the check . . ." She looks devastated, "You forgot to draw a little 'smiley face' on it."

Nastassja obliges: drawing a little smiley face on my receipt -- then gives me a look and smile that's sure to linger; even longer than the aftertaste of the over-seasoned Cajun fries.