aukadót

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

[Mr Creosote enters.]
First Fish: [in tank] Oh shit! It's Mr creosote.
[All the fish disappear with six flicks of the tail.]
Maitre D: Ah good afternoon, sir, and how are we today?
Mr Creosote: Better...
Maitre D: Better?
Mr Creosote: Better get a bucket, I'm going to throw up.
Maitre D: Gaston! A bucket for monsieur!
[They seat him at his usual table. A gleaming silver bucket is placed beside him and he leans over and throws up into it.]
Maitre D: Merci Gaston.
[He claps his hands and the bucket is whisked away.]
Mr Creosote: I haven't finished!
Maitre D: Oh! Pardon! Gaston!... A thousand pardons monsieur.
[Puts the bucket back.] [The Maitre D produces the menu as Mr Creosote continues spewing.]
Maitre D: Now this afternoon we monsieur's favourite - the jugged hare. The hare is *very* high, and the sauce is very rich with truffles, anchovies, Grand Marnier, bacon and cream.
[Mr Creosote pauses. The Maitre D claps his hands and signs to Gaston, who whisks away the bucket.]
Maitre D: Thank you, Gaston.
Mr Creosote: There's still more.
[Gaston rapidly replaces the bucket.]
Maitre D: Allow me! A new bucket for monsieur.
[The Maitre D picks the bucket up and hands it over to Gaston. Mr Creosote leans over and throws up onto the floor. And the cleaning woman.] [Gaston hurries off. The Maitre D takes care to avoid the vomit and places the menu in front of Mr Creosote.]
And maintenant, would monsieur care for an aperitif?
[Creosote vomits over the menu. It is covered.]
Or would you prefer to order straight away? Today for appetizers... er... excuse me... [The Maitre D leans over and wipes away the sick with his hand so that the words of the menu are readable.]
... moules marinieres, pate de foie gras, beluga caviar, eggs Benedictine, tart de poireaux - that's leek tart - frogs' legs amandine or oeufs de caille Richard Shepherd - c'est a dire, little quails' eggs on a bed of pureed mushrooms, it's very delicate, very subtle...
Mr Creosote: I'll have the lot.
Maitre D: A wise choice, monsieur! And now, how would you like it served? All mixed up in a bucket?
Mr Creosote: Yes. With the eggs on top.
Maitre D: But of course, avec les oeufs frites.
Mr Creosote: And don't skimp on the pate.
Maitre D: Oh monsieur I can assure you, just because it is mixed up with all the other things we would not dream of giving you less than the full amount. In fact I will personally make sure you have a *double* helping. Maintenant quelque chose a boire - something to drink, monsieur?
Mr Creosote: Yeah, six bottles of Chateau Latour '45 and a double Jeroboam of champagne.
Maitre D: Bon, and the usual brown ales...?
Mr Creosote: Yeah... No wait a minute... I think I can only manage six crates today.
Maitre D: Tut tut tut! I hope monsieur was not overdoing it last night...?
Mr Creosote: Shut up!
Maitre D: D'accord. Ah the new bucket and the cleaning woman.
[Gaston arrives. The Cleaning Woman gets down on her hands and knees. Mr Creosote vomits over her.] [Some guests at another table start to leave. The Maitre D approaches.]
Maitre D: Monsieur, is there something wrong with the food?
[The Maitre D indicates the table of half-eaten main courses. The guests shrink from his vomit-covered hand.
The Maitre D realises and shakes a little off. It hits another guest, who wipes his eye.]
Guest: No. The food was... excellent...
Maitre D: Perhaps you are not happy with the service?
Guest: Er no... no... no complaints.
Guest's Wife: It's just we have to go - um - I'm having rather a heavy period.
[A slight embarrassed silence while the rest of the party look at her.]
Guest: And... we... have a train to catch.
Guest's Wife: [as if covering for her previous gaffe] Oh! Yes! Yes... of course! We have a train to catch... and I don't want to start bleeding over the seats.
[An awkward pause. The Maitre D gropes for words.]
Guest: Perhaps we should be going...
[They start to go. The Maitre D follows.]
Maitre D: Very well, monsieur. Thank you so much, so nice to see you and I hope very much we will see you again very soon. Au revoir, monsieur.
[He pauses. A look of awful realization suffuses his face.]
Maitre D: ... Oh dear... I've trodden in monsieur's bucket.
[The Maitre D claps his hands.] Another bucket for monsieur...
[Mr Creosote is sick down the Maitre D's trousers.]and perhaps a hose...
[Someone at another table gently throws up.]
Companion: Oh Max, really!
[At another table someone else has really thrown up all over the place. His mother and brother look at him incredulously. Meanwhile Mr Creosote has scoffed the lot. The Maitre D approaches him with a silver tray.]
Maitre D: And finally, monsieur, a wafer-thin mint.
Mr Creosote: No.
Maitre D: Oh sir! It's only a tiny little thin one.
Mr Creosote: No. Fuck off - I'm full... [Belches]
Maitre D: Oh sir... it's only *wafer* thin.
Mr Creosote: Look - I couldn't eat another thing. I'm absolutely stuffed. Bugger off.
Maitre D: Oh sir, just... just *one*...
Mr Creosote: Oh all right. Just one.
Maitre D: Just the one, sir... voila... bon appetit... [Mr Creosote somehow manages to stuff the wafer-thin mint into his mouth and then swallows. The Maitre D takes a flying leap and cowers behind some potted plants. There is an ominous splitting sound. Mr Creosote looks rather helpless and then he explodes, covering waiters, diners, and technicians in a truly horrendous mix of half digested food, entrails and parts of his body. People start vomiting.]
Maitre D: [returns to Mr Creosote's table] Thank you, sir, and now the check.

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