The Finger

THE FINGER

On the Saturday afternoon right smack in the middle of Memorial Day Weekend, I sat down to a late lunch at Sawgrass Mills Mall’s Cheesecake Factory. As the restaurant was extremely crowded – as always – I had found a seat at the bar.
One of the bartenders – a very genial, jovial woman – seemed to remember me from a previous visit. Asking for a glass of champagne – or was it a kir? – I then awaited my fish sandwich and spinach. Or, was it the eggplant sandwich? I honestly don’t remember.
What the lady sitting to my immediate left found in her BBQ Ranch chicken salad turned out to be much more interesting. After munching her way through the crispy, crunchy onion rings that covered her salad, she began to fork her way through the greens. All of a sudden, she stopped. Abruptly. She called one of the bartenders over.
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. I think I’m going to be sick,” I overheard her comment. The manager came over. Apologizing profusely to the shock stricken woman, he took the offending platter away. Needless to say, she walked away without paying. And in a bit of a huff she was, too.
A couple was sitting next to her. They’d had a bird’s-eye view of the goings on, so I asked them what, exactly, had been in the poor lady’s salad.
A finger. A finger from one of those rubber gloves that are now mandatory for kitchen staff to wear.
Talk about giving someone the finger.