Letters from a Stepford WifePart of: LA
[Breakfast: buffet at The Viceroy]
I was dining at a modest café in Sherman Oaks (yes, on rare occasions I do go to the Valley even though I loathe it) and this couple with a toddler came and sat at the next table. They were all friendly with the wait staff like they were the owners. They knew all the staff by name, and the Mom repeated several times to their son, “Why don’t you go back to the kitchen and watch Pedro make your frittata?”
The son wasn’t interest. However, he was interested in repeating the word frittata. I was impressed that he could say it. I’m sure his parents were shoving the alphabet down his throat while he was still in the womb. A server came over.
“Hey, Annie, is your sister still a nanny?” the Mom inquired.
“No, she cleans houses now,” said Annie.
I watched the Mom’s face turn to disgust, then boomerang back to a fake smile.
“Well, we need a nanny.”
Translation: Our kid isn’t cute anymore—terrible 2’s.
"Do you think she’d be interested?”
Annie didn’t answer right away, because she was obviously thinking, you couldn’t pay my sister enough to work for you.
“I can ask her,” she said tentatively
Another waiter came with their food. The Mom’s smile turned down. “Oh, I wanted the balsamic dressing, not the Italian. I’m sorry! Do you want to eat it?"
“I’m lactose intolerant,” the waiter explained.
“But can’t you just take off the cheese?"
The waiter was silent.
“Give it to Pedro and tell him it’s my treat,” the Mom said.
WTF? She wasn’t going to pay for the second salad, and the salad looked like it only consisted of cheese and lettuce. I bet that she was one of thpse annoying people who handed out apples to trick-or-treaters on Halloween. Before she gave it to them she’d say, “Whoa...do I have a treat for you!!!”