Sorry I Made You Eat Your God
You were cold and hungry, and you and your husband were grateful that the diner I worked in was open so late. Being close to the airport, I'm used to accents, but yours was so thick I was really just guessing and smiling. It wasn't until you finished your meal that your husband asked in a fairly clear voice if the brown gravy you were raving over was brown from beef. Your tears clued me in that this was not a weight-loss-related question. The 20 minutes I spent in the back "investigating" what made the brown gravy brown? I was hiding. And when I said it was brown due to natural and artificial coloring and flavors, I wasn't lying. But the natural flavor was cow. My fellow waiter told me after you left that you flew in for an overnight trip and you practiced Hinduism. I'm really sorry I made you eat your God.