Later in the meal, Cody stopped to ask if there was anything we needed. "Can I have some more salsa?" I asked, my little bowl nearly empty. "Well, uh, that's salsa there," he said, pointing at a dish on mother's plate. "It just has some sour cream in it." I looked at Cody, dumbfounded, and then at mother's plate. First, I had not ordered a salsa-sour cream mixture -- I asked for a bowl of salsa. And second, what kind of infidel waiter tells someone to eat off his neighbor's plate? How does he know we're not mere acquaintances? Or on a business dinner? Or that one of us wasn't ill? Has Cody never heard of the swine flu epidemic?!?! I should report the infidel to the CDC as a public health hazard!
Now it's possible that Cody noted the familial resemblance between mother and I and assumed I wouldn't mind eating off her plate, but still, this kind of an assumption is strictly forbidden for a waiter who wants a good tip. And it got worse, my flock. Oh, yes, it got worse. The infidel Cody returned near the end of our meal with our check. "Would you like me to take your plate?" he asked mother. She consented, and he picked it up. Then he quickly reached over with his grubby little hands and grabbed my plate while it still had food on it. "I'm still eating!" I growled, pondering whether to take a chunk out of his forearm flesh with my razorlike teeth. "No," I told myself, "this waiter has already left enough of a bad taste in my mouth."
Cody, I condemn you in the strongest possible terms. Nobody takes food from the ayatollah -- just ask my little brother Wendell! All I can say is that Cody is fortunate that I let mother determine his tip.