I walk over to a short, fat Jewish woman, old and hideously dressed. “Listen,” I say. “I have a reservation. Bateman. Where’s the maitre d’? I know Jackie Mason,” and she sighs, “I can seat you. Don’t need a reservation,” as she reaches for a
Menu. She leads me to a horrible table in back near the rest rooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush to a booth up front and I’m appalled by the cheapness of the food —”Is this a goddamn joke?”—and sensing a waitress is near I order without looking up. “A cheeseburger. I’d like a cheeseburger and I’d like it medium rare.” “I’m sorry, sir,” the waitress says. “No cheese. Kosher,” and I have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about and I say, “Fine. A kosherburger but with cheese, Monterey Jack perhaps, and—oh god,” I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. “No cheese, sir,” she says. “Kosher …” “Oh god, is this a nightmare, you fucking Jew?” I mutter, and then, “Cottage cheese? Just bring it?” “I’ll get the manager,” she says. “Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile,” I hiss. “Yes?” she asks. “A … vanilla … milk shake …” “No milk shakes. Kosher,” she says, then, “I’ll get the manager.” “No, wait.” “Mister I’ll get the manager.” “What in the fuck is going on?” I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy table. “No milk shake. Kosher,” she says, thick-lipped, just one of billions of people who have passed over this planet. “Then bring me a fucking … vanilla … malted!” I roar, spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares. “Extra thick!” I add. She walks away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, “Fuck yourself you retarded cocksucking kike,” and I run out of the delicatessen and onto the street
