On the way home from French class tonight, I practiced my newly acquired language skills by whining incessantly about how much I wanted sushi. "Je voudrais sushi! Beaucoup! Je voooooodraaaaais suuuuuushi! Je suis malade! Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeee voudRA-A-A-A-AIS!" Brett, bless him, folded quickly and took us to the neighborhood sushi joint - not our usual place where they know our names and orders by heart, but the one that's just a couple blocks from the house.
What a difference. Their rice is slimy, the restaurant was filled with smoke, and the service was slow. And to top it all off, we ended up sitting next to two of the bitchiest sushi customers in the known universe, who proceeded to look askance at Brett's order (he gets a lot, and I do mean a lot, of sushi) and make snarky, underhanded comments to each other about it that he didn't hear but I did. "That is SO wrong," one of them snarked to the other, more than once. Um, bite me, you skinny bitch.
As it turns out, they were squeamish about sushi anyways, and spent the whole meal giggling in terror at their two pieces of tuna nigiri and talking about how gross it was. But their comments about us were not in the joking vein.
How rude can you be? They were only separated from us by about five feet. They knew I could hear them, and just in case they didn't, the bitchy looks I gave the girl a couple of times must have made it quite apparent.
I put up with it for a while, and then I looked at Brett and said, rather loudly, "Why are these people talking about your food??" Then I picked up my chopsticks and continued to eat.
No more comments from the sushi snarks.
Brett, actually, missed the whole thing, including my comments. I explained it to him on the way home. "They what?" he said. "That makes me want to just go right back in there and pee on their food."
"That's right, honey," I replied. "No one gets to pick on you but me."