Iced Tea

ICED TEA or IN MEMORY OF A MISERABLE ORDEAL

In a restaurant, the name of which I do not care to remember, I experienced what might be called the worst of my trials. I suppose I should have counted it joy, all of it, but I don’t think it was one of those “divers temptations”. (I think it was really waiters’ temptations, but that’s currently being debated by scholars.)  The prophets and priests might call it one of the seven deadly sins – gluttony, to be exact – but one cannot rightly say so. I do not consider myself guilty; I was a victim, not a perpetrator.

               

I was then about half my current age. It was a buffet. I had been to buffets before and never had any problems with eat-all-you-cans, but, up to this particular visit, I had never been told No-Leftovers-or-Else-You-Pay-Double. You know how easily these rules can latch on to and settle in the mind of a child, and I, despite my budding brilliance, was no exception to this phenomenon.

            I cannot recall what food was served at the buffet. What I can recall, with vivid horror, is the iced tea.

The Devil can use the good things of life to his own purposes. I considered and still do consider iced tea a good drink. If there isn’t coffee available, iced tea is a perfectly good second choice for me. But after visiting that restaurant I didn’t want any iced tea for a while.

There I was, having eaten all I could, and there was iced tea in a dewy, cold glass. I consumed the iced tea in rapid swigs.

           

There were now no leftovers on my plate, and I was perfectly content. But, lo and behold, there came a waiter, arms full with glasses and utensils and a pitcher or two of iced tea. Knowing that I could easily drink more, I wasn’t upset when he refilled my glass. And it was consumed, my second glass of the day, and once again, no leftovers.

            My parents were chatting, and I remained a content little kid. I sat there quietly, seen and not heard. Then the ordeal really began, for there swooped in, like a fallen angel, another waiter, and poured a generous serving of iced tea into my glass. My cup ran over. But No-Leftovers-or-Else-You-Pay-Double, and I drank it down, slower than I had previously done, with grave seriousness.

             Now I began to feel some discontent. Surely this was a trick that restaurant managers used to squeeze double pay out of poor unsuspecting customers, but I was proud and stoic. I wouldn’t complain to my parents.

             I was given a respite, but eventually another waiter, in no way less sadistic than the others, refilled that accursed glass. If I had been more brilliant, I would have said “Waiter! Thing of evil! – waiter still, if man or devil!” Sadly, I was not so poetic, but you can imagine my anguish.

             Nevertheless, I did drink, very, very slowly. My stomach began protesting, but what could I do? I was an innocent, helpless victim of the evil restaurant bureaucracy. If ever I felt like a martyr, it was then.

            But you can guess what happened next. Yes, that glass – the exact antipode of the sangréal! – was refilled. Tears rimmed my eyes, as icy dew rimmed the mouth of the glass.

            There sat my parents, my brother, and my sister. Nobody cared, but they really couldn’t be blamed for that; I was too proud to tell them about my trial.

           

Maybe one of the great bowls of wrath had been poured out, and most of it fell on me – or on my little glass – and the rest most definitely didn’t fall on the people around me.

            I cannot imagine how I managed to gulp the iced tea down, but I have immense respect for my younger self. I’m sure it took me at least five minutes, and I don’t recall ever going to the comfort room.

Immense respect.

I’ve never since felt the weight of five glasses of iced tea plus a buffet lunch in my stomach, although I’m sure my gastrointestinal capacity is just as capable today.

It was at this point that my mother remarked at how many glasses of iced tea I was able to drink, and the dawn of a horrible feeling of realization crept into the horizon. I told her that Of-course-I-had-to-finish-all-the-glasses-of-iced-tea-because-No-Leftovers-or-Else-You-Pay-Double.

And she laughed.

The buffet principle apparently didn’t apply to drinks.

Everyone else had joined in the laughing by now, except my brother, who was too young to understand.

And I was compelled to laugh along. What else could I do?

After calling a taxi and getting in it, we continued laughing. I was laughing with one hand on my stomach and half my posterior off the seat because of the unbearable nausea.

               

It didn’t apply to drinks. Oh, what needless pain I bore, all because I wasn’t told that it didn’t apply to drinks. I blame my mother.