Worst. Dinner. Ever.

Chris is off at the Padres game tonight, gladhanding insurance brokers 'n' such, so I decided to take this unique opportunity to go to Filippi's for a sandwich. It's a unique opportunity because whenever the two of us go to Filippi's we unerringly order a pizza. The pizza is that good. I mean, it's pretty much the best non-Chicago style pizza I've ever had. I always kind of want to get a sandwich, but there's Chris, looking at me with those big sad eyes, imploring me to search my feelings, I know it to be true, I do indeed want a pizza. And I do, so we get one.

But today I went in there, just me and my plastic-covered library copy of High Fidelity (Yes, the book. Yes, it's a book. Yes, it was a book before it was a movie. Look, just read it, okay?). The two girls behind the counter asked me to wait for a moment until the "seater" came back up front, then they proceeded to stare uncomfortably into the depths of the restaurant for the next three minutes. "Seater" must be a union job that they are forbidden from attempting, kind of like how we weren't allowed to change our own light bulbs when I was a Disneyland shopgirl.

So. The Seater approached. The counter girls told her "just one" and gestured to me. She looked around, pointed at a table that was about 5 feet away, and said to me, "You wanna grab that one?"

Seater (n): /SEETur/: One who seats or assists in the seating of others.

I affirmed, that indeed, I did want to "grab that one," and proceeded to seat myself, probably angering Teamsters everywhere as I did so. I had just arranged my purse on the chair next to me and found my place in the book when Lil' Miss Local 324 came over to my table. "Hi, actually you wanna grab that one back there? I'm trying to seat a large party."

Yer girl stayed put, as it was close enough to the window that I got decent reading light. That'll teach her.

The rest of the story is pretty disheartening. The ham and cheese sandwich isn't that great. They make no effort to hide the rectangular nature of their ham; it's almost as though they're shouting to the rooftops and all within hearing that "YES! We buy ham across the street at Ralph's and put it on our sandwiches! We shall not insult you by serving anything that smacks of Italian deli freshness! Can we bring you a Chianti bottle that's actually full of Tropical Twista Capri Sun?"

And I never saw the waitress until I was nearly finished. And during the duration of my meal, the place was transformed, table by table, like some sort of evil cancer, from a quiet grotto to Satan's Daycare. So I was happy to see the back of that meal, let me tell you.

From now on I'm only ordering the pizza, and next time I'm left alone I'm going to try the Tugboat Fish and Chips across the street. Stay tuned.