Hot Noodle, Stiffed Waitress

For this evening's Friday-night entertainment, Matt the housemate touched upon the idea of trying out the Hot Noodle's new "fuzion" bar. I looked it up; that's actually how it's spelled. It pained me to type the word, rest assured.

The Hot Noodle, while sounding like a rather esoteric sex act, is actually a pan-Asian cuisine restaurant and bar divided by a wall. During regular meal hours, the restaurant is open, but at night the bar side opens as well. Aside from the bar itself, there are pool tables, dart boards, hookah pipes, and a reduced after-hours menu offering the place's more popular dishes.

The week before, while there on lunch, we peeked through the glass door dividing the two halves of the establishment. The hostess approached us and offered us a flyer good for a free second round of shisha tobacco if presented to the waitress. Tonight we got our chance to cash it in, and cash it in we did.

We took a small booth-like setup against the wall, across from the pool tables. The booth had a tiny table on which the main hookah pipe would stand, as well as another small table for drinks and menu items. We chose the strawberry shisha tobacco to start, as I'd smoked that particular flavor in Kuwait and remembered it being pretty good.

Smoking from a hookah is largely meant to be a social thing; while one person is puffing, you have to form a seal over your own nozzle with a thumb or finger so that they can draw richer smoke. The tobacco used isn't the same stuff found in cigarettes; the vast majority of the mixture is actually flavored molasses. As such, the nicotene levels are incredibly low to start, and with the natural filtration done by the water in the hookah's bowl, by the time the smoke reaches your mouth there's almost none left at all.

After we were set up and puffing away—the strawberry was good, by the way—the waitress checked up on us and Matt ordered a saké-tini, which was for this place equal parts Grey Goose and Gekkaikan. Apparently, it was quite good. Damn good, actually. Smooth as hell. Matt couldn't stop raving about it.

We smoked for a bit and watched the pool players. When our waitress returned, she asked if we wanted anything to eat. We knew from our several lunches there that their pad Thai is excellent, so two orders of that, plus a straight vodka martini for Matt. It was his first time having Grey Goose, and he wanted to see how it did on its own.

We ate, we smoked, and Matt drank. The waitress was walking around with tequila shooters, and sweet-talked Matt into trying one. It was the whole nine yards: lick your hand, shake salt on your hand, lick the salt, take the shot, and suck on a lime. Bing bang boom. The pad Thai was great, by the way.

For the second round of tobacco, we wanted to try the coffee flavor, but as it turns out they were out of it, so we got mint instead. Much more subtle than strawberry, mint was something you could really taste only after you blew out the smoke. It was still good, though.

After we were done, our waitress delivered the itemized check, and Matt decided to put it on his card. Apparently that shot he had bought cost four dollars. Damn. I'm glad I don't have a taste for alcohol. Knowing I didn't have enough cash on me to cover my part of the bill, I slipped out of the restaurant to go to my credit union, which is conveniently located on the other side of the parking lot from the Hot Noodle. After withdrawing what I needed, I met Matt at my car.

Back home, I worked out how much of the bill I owed. Since I hadn't been around for the actual signing of the bill, I had one amount I couldn't yet figure.

"How much did you tip?" I asked.

For a moment, there was silence. Then: "Grrraaahh! I suck!"

"What, what happened?"

My housemate turned around in his chair, eyes wide. "I didn't fill in the tip line!"

If you'll remember, I had already left the restaurant when it came time to sign the receipt. Had I been there, I might have noticed and been able to catch it. I hadn't been, however, and so the tip column had remained empty. It was just a simple case of forgetfulness.

At that moment, we both could almost hear the nice waitress cursing our name, her normally-lovely face twisted into a mask of rage and spite, fist raised, shaking, as her own carefully-manicured nails drawing blood from her palm even as her knuckles whitened from the effort.

After the revelation's spell broke, we soon decided it'd be pretty styling (or as styling as it could be, at that point) to return the next night just to give the waitress her tip, so that's the plan for tomorrow. Let's hope she's working.