"Say when, sir," the waiter instructs you as he begins to sprinkle freshly ground parmesan onto your Caesar salad.
You nod, but say nothing. The romaine lettuce grabs specks of cheese as they fall from the shaker.
You do not say when.
The specks begin to coalesce and congregate, forming a blanket of yellow-white against the green of the lettuce.
The waiter seems slightly uncomfortable. He stared at you in anticipation, waiting for a when that does not come.
You shake your head at what you consider a paltry sum of cheese shavings on your salad. Feeing the waiter's hot leer on your face, you crane your head up to meet his gaze and return his stare with a blank expression.
The shaker runs dry and small mound of parm is left on your greens. A light sweat breaks out on the waiter's brow and the moisture glistens brightly under the soft overhead lighting of the restaurant.
Still, you remain silent. Your eyebrows rise and you jut your head forward, shaking it I ever so slightly. That's all? says your expression.
The server eyes you desperately. Don't do this to me his eyes say silently.
You do not acquiesce. You stare the waiter down. He breaks away from your stern gaze and beckons to the servers gathered at the expo station.
Several black-clad white people scurry to your table and begin handing tube after tube of cheese to your server.
For what seems like hours, the poor young man grinds spoiled milk over your milquetoast salad.
A veritable mountain go slightly yellow cheese towers over you on the table.
"Sir. Please. We're out," begs your server.
You take a deep breath. "I won't say when," you declare.
A single salty tear falls down the sever's face. His cheese stores are empty, and his faith in salad is shattered. He is a man broken.
"...but I guess this will do," you clarify.
The waiter collapses. "Thank you sir," he says, exhausted. He begins to walk away when you snap your finger.
He turns to you and reveals a face red and wet. "S-sir?" he mumbles.
"I'd like to order my entree," you say snidely.