So we got there, and got seated, and started staring at the other customers while waiting for the sole waiter to get around to us. He sauntered by after a few minutes, took our order, and we settled in to wait. There weren't too many people in the place: a scary-looking truck driver, a scarier-looking prostitute he was with, a young couple canoodling over a plate of appetizers, some off-work Denny's personnel, and us. I figured it would be extra fast service, at least on the kitchen's end. Not a chance.

The cook served up several orders, none of them ours. I gave the waiter A Look, and he hustled over to the cook who went into a long monologue on why he was overworked. After 25 minutes our food finally arrived, cold and nasty. I suddenly switched from mellow to icy polite and asked to speak to the manager. It took her almost 10 minutes to come over; she realized there was a problem and rather than speaking to us immediately, she decided to chat with the waiter and the cook. By then I was almost laughing at the whole thing, but I wanted satisfaction. We settled that she would reheat my food, take the cost off our bill, and obsequiously apologize to me at regular intervals.

As I wolfed down the reheated dinner, I heard the cook slam a plate up on the counter, jangle the bell, and announce loudly, "This one only took me two minutes!" Ooh, I thought. Someone is mad about getting yelled at for not cooking fast enough. I snuck a look at the burly cook; sure enough, he was glancing at our table. I kept my head down and finished my plate. We zoomed up to the counter to pay, having spent enough time soaking up the ambience. As we arrived, another customer walked up and presented his plate to the manager. It was a patty melt. It was undercooked. "Gee," I thought, "musta been that two minute order." The manager sort of deflated, and I felt sorry for her.

But I'm never going back to that Denny's. Next time, I'll cook it myself. It'd be a sight faster.