BHM Brunch Shift by ffaboots (~BHM, ~FFA)

[ffaboots]

~BHM, ~FFA - A server gets another shot with her favorite customer

Brunch Shift
by ffaboots​

“Stomp, hop-shuffle, step, flap, step, stomp…” I time-stepped by the host stand, seeing Ron approach out of the corner of my eye, a little too late.

“Okay, Shirley Temple, let’s shut down the floor show for today,” he said, as he shoved a handful of menus in their designated holding slot. I stopped tapping on the carpet. “And please put your hair up.”

“It’s never--” I started.

He held up a finger. “One long brown hair in someone’s food and they will never come back. Plus, I guarantee they won’t tip. Do you want that? I don’t,” Ron said without pausing on his way back to the kitchen. I twisted my hair into a chignon and corkscrewed a couple pins through it.

“Who’s Shirley Temple?” asked Dupree, tracing our logo on a menu with his fingertip.

I turned to him, slack-jawed. “Who’s Shirley Temple?!?” I repeated. “Jesus, Pree, watch a movie from before 1992. She was ONLY…”

“Boner alert!” interrupted Dupree excitedly, grasping my forearm and looking out the glass front door (confusingly, we say “boner alert” both if a customer has an obvious erection--you’d be surprised how often it happens--and when we see someone attractive; this was the latter).

I looked at the fat, handsome, bespectacled guy headed for the door. Thank god he wasn’t looking at us because I swallowed my lips and looked at Dupree with huge, excited eyes. “And you thought he’d never come back,” said Pree. “He’s been getting plenty of omelettes somewhere else,” he said. “You like ‘em that big?” he asked, smiling at me.

“And how,” I mumbled, still staring at the fat guy. He’d definitely gained weight; his button-down shirt was loose but it outlined the curve of his massive belly, hanging way over the waistband of his shorts.

I really hadn’t expected to see this head-turning chub again--for a while he’d come in every week, and was by far my favorite customer. He wasn’t always in my section, but he was always in my sights. And week after week I’d watch him eat, and it seemed as if he got fatter and more charming with every visit. And each week I’d think about trying to flirt with him, get overwhelmed with nerves, and tell myself, “Next time. I swear, next time.”

Until one week went by without him showing up, then two, then a month, then a few months...I figured he’d moved or something. But here he was! And even fatter, which to me meant even more attractive, and I would not squander this opportunity.

“Oh lookie here,” said Dupree, pointing at the seating chart. “He’s in your section!”

I grinned a little. “But I’m on booths today.”

“He is in--” Dupree pressed a menu into my now-shaky hands, “--your section.” We both tried to approximate normal expressions as the fat guy strode up to the host stand.

“Welcome to IHOP. One?” said Dupree, while I fought back a sudden, terrible case of the giggles, affliction of all who are trying to act normal. I pinched my leg, hard.

“Yeah,” said the attractive fat guy, scanning the restaurant.

“Table or booth?” asked Dupree.

“Table,” he replied. His double chin was bigger now, I noticed. It hung down a little further under his goatee.

Dupree patted me on the arm. “Just follow Nicole.”

I smiled at the fat guy, trying to guess how much he weighed now (over three bills for sure, I decided), and led him straight to the nearest booth. “I’ll be right back to take your order,” I said, setting down his menu.

He frowned at the booth, then at me. “No, a TABLE,” he repeated, louder this time, obviously wondering if I was hearing impaired or just really stupid.

“Oh for...of course you did. For goodness’ sake, I don’t know what I was thinking about. I’m so sorry. Right this way.” As I led him to the other side of the restaurant, I cursed myself. The last time he’d come in we had seated him in a booth, and it was such a tight squeeze he’d asked me to reseat him. Which had of course gotten me terribly hot and bothered--this butterball was too fat to fit in a booth! Now he was even fatter; obviously it wasn’t going to work any better.

I settled him in my favorite table, close to a window. “Sorry, again--I should have remembered from last time you were here!” I said, then winced inwardly, realizing that “last time” had been at least six months ago, so either I had an eidetic memory for every customer encounter or I had taken a particular interest in him. He smiled quizzically at me--his smile changed his whole face, made it even more delightful.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked.

“Diet Pepsi,” he said.

“Diet Pepsi?” I confirmed.

He nodded. “Obviously I’m on a diet,” he said, and I felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me. “I’m kidding,” he said. “I just always drink diet soda.”

“I’ll be right back to take your order,” I said, smiling gratefully and doing the sexiest walk to the kitchen I could manage on legs that felt like water. I got inside the door of the kitchen and laid my forehead against the cool tiled wall.

“I heard your fat guy’s back!” Gloria shouted across the kitchen. “Dupree says you’re going to use some pancake bait to catch that whale,” she teased.

“Shhhhhhh!” I said. “What if he hears you?”

Gloria plated some hash browns. “I can hardly hear myself in here,” she yelled. “Now go flirt with that fatty. And don’t forget his drink! I know how you get nervous around the handsome gordos.” I blew her a kiss, then went to get the fat guy’s drink.

“Here you are,” I said, setting it down. “Do you know what you’d like to eat?” I asked, looking at how his shirt draped over his tits and belly.

“Country Omelette,” he said, sliding his menu over to me.

“That comes with…” I had a brainstorm. “...neverending pancakes as a side.” All-you-can-eat pancakes weren’t really on the menu. But I was dying to see him stuff fattening breakfast food into his face until he could barely waddle out of the restaurant..

“It does?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“Yes!” I said, picking up his menu before he could consult it. “Okay, great, I’ll get that going!”

Back in the kitchen, Gloria took the order right out of my hand. She looked it over and pursed her lips. “Neverending pancakes? What’s that?”

“Um…” I started. “It’s where I take him a side order and he can keep asking for more as many times as he wants.”

She frowned at me, mock-stern. “Nicole, we are not currently running that promotion,” she said, doing her best Ron the Manager.

I smiled back and raised my eyebrows. “Maybe today we are? Pleeeeease?”

Gloria laughed. “You’re a weird one, you know that, Niña?”

I laughed too, relieved. She was going to go along with it. “Yes, I’m very weird, I like to seduce fat guys by bringing them a whole bunch of food, it’s not normal.”

She headed back to her station. “I won’t tell Ron, but you have to give that tubbo your number.”

“Okay!” I squeaked, not sure I could really do that.

When Gloria brought his meal to the pass it was beautiful, like something we’d use for an advertising photo. Cheese melted gorgeously on the omelette, and butter dripped over the lacy edge of the pancake stack. “Gloria, you’re an artist,” I said in wonder.

She smiled. “Sometimes I do actually try,” she said.

I set the food in front of the handsome fat man. Some people’s faces light up when their food arrives, but he looked serious, like the food was a challenge to be met. Sexy. I took his drink to get him a refill, and when I returned with it he was well into the omelette. I retreated to the host stand with Dupree to watch the fat guy eat from a distance.

“If he weren’t so involved with that omelette, he would feel your eyes boring into him,” Dupree teased me as I watched my imaginary fat boyfriend devour bite after bite.

“Maybe we’ll get married, and on our anniversary, I’ll put butter and syrup on my tits and make him lick it off,” I joked. Once he was down to his last few bites, I flitted over to his table.

“Shall I bring your next stack of pancakes?” I asked sweetly.

He stifled a burp. “Scuse me. I probably shouldn’t, but what the hell,” he said, spearing another bite of food. Mmm, a willing pig. Walking to the kitchen, I bit my lip as desire coursed through me. No wonder he’d packed on so much weight. I was back with another stack of pancakes in no time.

The second stack went down slower, but he still finished it. About three quarters of the way through, he glanced in my direction, and saw me staring at him. To cover, I smiled and walked to his table. “How does everything taste? Just let me know when you’re ready for your next order of pancakes,” I said.

“Ha!” A quick bark of laughter escaped him. He put a hand on his belly. “Next order?”

“You know,” I purred, leaning toward him like we shared a secret, my heart thumping. “I’ve never seen anyone get through a third stack, but you seem like just the guy for the job. Such a healthy appetite,” I said, nodding toward his belly. I was pushing my luck; most guys would at this point probably decide I was a bona fide nutjob.

But he met my eyes, and I didn’t flinch. He searched my face for a second, then smiled like he understood, and sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Okay,” he agreed.

The third stack was rough going, I could tell. Perspiration started to dot his forehead, and he ate much more slowly. But every once in a while, he’d glance over to catch me watching him eat, and that seemed to fuel this last burst of gluttony. When he stuffed the last bite into his mouth, I floated to his table, absolutely elated. “Done!” he proclaimed, dropping his fork on the empty plate and balling up his napkin. He leaned back, obviously trying to give his vast and unbelievably full belly some room, any room.

“It’ll take some practice before I can eat four orders...” he said, looking at me testingly. If we’d been alone I would have moaned out loud.

“Good, come back anytime, I’d love to help you…practice,” I said, and looked at him for way too long before I cleared my throat and said, “I’ll be right back with your check.”

I brought him the check, ran his credit card, and scrawled “Nicole, 619-555-0151” on the back of his copy of the receipt. I took him both copies, and touched his warm, pale hand as I gave him the check presenter. “Your copy of the receipt is inside--please come back again soon. It was very nice seeing you again.”

“Thanks,” he said. It seemed like neither of us wanted the conversation to end but weren’t sure how to prolong it either.

“Have a good day,” I said, and walked toward the kitchen. I turned back to see him push himself to his feet, with an expression on his face that plainly said, God, I’m so full. He made his way to the door, walking more slowly than he had on the way in. What if he got so fat someday that he needed help waddling out to the parking lot? What if he got so fat that he could barely squeeze through the door of the restaurant? I sighed from the very idea.

I walked back to his table and realized he hadn’t taken the slip with my number. Damn. Well...I’d gone this far. I picked up the small slip of paper and started to follow him outside, then paused by the host stand. “Pree, I’ll be right back, he forgot something.”

A slow smile crossed Dupree’s face. “Oh, did he? Like, he forgot his umbrella, or he forgot to ask you out?”

“Shut up,” I said, laughing, and ran out the door into the parking lot, catching up with the fat guy pretty easily. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hi...” he said, seeming half pleased and half confused. And he started to say, “Hey, would you--”

And at the same time I said, “You forgot this,” and held out the receipt.

“Uh,” he said, plainly disappointed. “I don’t really need…”

“No, no, I mean…” I said, then picked up his hand and put the receipt on his open palm, the side with my number facing up. “You forgot this. Maybe you won’t need it! But you might.”

He looked at it and his eyes widened, then he looked up at me. “Oh!” he said, sounding happier.

----------

Toward the end of my shift, I ducked into the empty ladies’ room to check my phone. There were three texts from an unfamiliar number:

Am I crazy, or do you like watching fat guys eat?
This is the pancake guy from this morning.
(The one with the glasses, maybe you have a whole coterie of pancake guys)

I pressed the phone to my heart. “YES!” I whisper-shouted. “Yes yes yes yes yessssss!” And then I texted him back:

You’re definitely not crazy. Want to get dinner?

 

[fatboy1004]

 

[agouderia]

 

[bayone]

 

[Tad]

 

[jim austin]

 

[Sweetsally]

 

[wildandfree]

 

[Fiji]

 

[CremaToriA]

 

[ffaboots]

 

[growinluvhandles]

 

[Undine]

 

[fat hiker]

 

[ALS]

 

[SilkySunshine]