You’re trying a new restaurant for dinner.

A waitress brings you water, a basket of rolls, and a menu and says she’ll be back soon to take your order.

When she returns, you tell her you’d like the grilled salmon with lightly steamed asparagus. She makes notes on a pad, and says, “Anything to drink with that?”

When you say, “No, thanks,” she nods and scurries away.

About fifteen minutes later, she comes to the table with a plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, and sets it in front of you.

“Wait a second,” you call, as she starts away, “this isn’t what I ordered.”

She walks back to your table. “Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t. I wanted salmon, grilled, with asparagus.”

“And that’s what you got.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Get me your manager.”

“Fine,” she huffs, and stalks off.

Minutes later she returns with a blank-faced, middle-aged man, who says, “What’s the problem?”

“I ordered salmon and asparagus, and this is what I got.”

“So?” He shrugs.

“This is beef.”

He leans over the plate. Sniffs. “Smells fishy to me.”

“Seriously?”

He sighs. “Would you like to order something else?

Feeling very clever, you say, “Yes. Bring me roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Thanks.”

The manager gives the plate to the waitress and they head back to the kitchen.

Half an hour goes by. You are starting to feel hopeful. Maybe you will get what you want.

But when the waitress returns, proclaiming, “Beef!” she sets the saddest, slimiest salad you have ever seen in front of you.

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