Hot Potato is a kiddie game played at birthday parties, back when kids were happy tossing a tuber. Younguns sit in a circle and quickly pass an object along. When Mom stops the record player, whoever’s left holding the potato is “out". The last kid, empty-handed, “wins”.
At Pastis, no one wins. I entered a half empty restaurant to order take-out. The server passed me to another server, who tossed me onto another, and yet another until I stood at the bar. A rattled bartender said he didn’t even know if he was serving take-out, and if so it’d probably take a long time. Said, I should talk to a manager.
Had I stumbled into Pastis on “opposite day”? It was Friday, come to think of it, and certainly the only explanation for why no server served, nor tender tended.
Either that, or the entire staff is high on crack cocaine.
Observe: empty-handed waiters charge like pit-bulls tied to a line, here to there, and back again. Bartenders fumble lemons, scattering and colliding like rugby players. No one looks in your eyes. Everyone sports a sweat mustache. Each and every ornery one forgot he has a job!
Reason to go pack to Pastis?
Mama’s got a Kg. of Colombian to unload.
Fast.
