Quotes About Waitress

Tory kept looking at the gun; it was quivering. The kid's hand was shaking; he was nervous. Oh, great. Just her luck, to be held up by a bunch of amateurs. Listen, we're all a bunch of amateurs too. My waitress stutters, my bartender can't hear, my janitor is an ex-junkie out on parole, and I used to twirl a baton for three hours a day. Give us a break.

Daisy leaned down to thump him on the back while she beamed at Kimberly's shocked face. "I don't care how much evidence the state presented. I've never for one moment believed he murdered that waitress." This started Alex choking all over again. Kimberly quickly backed away. "I—excuse me. My next order's up." "Run along," Daisy said gaily. "And God bless!

Here came the waitress. She had on a mini-skirt, high heels, see-through blouse with padded brassiere. Everything was too small for her: her outfit, the world, her mind. Her face was hard as steel. When she smiled it hurt. It hurt her and it hurt me. She kept smiling. That smile was so false the hairs on my arms rose. I looked away.

I'll bet I'm as old as you are. I'm older than Sanskrit. Well, I was waitress at the Last Supper. I'm so old I remember when McDonald's had only sold a hundred burgers. You win.

At the counter, a different waitress flirts with an aspiring writer who's probably been trying to fuck her and finish his screenplay for months. He asks for a side of guac and she tells him that it's two dollars extra. That's how it works here. The guy who deserves free guac doesn't get free guac.

The waitress looked a little awkward. "Is all that for both you and your sister?

WAITRESS 2 Then, the topper . . . an elbow to the ribs . . . "Hey, you make it?" Really sensitive, like we've got a fucking recipe for an orgasm!

This is the Marina. This is where you go between the fraternity or sorority house and your first divorce. Look around, except for our waitress, who I guarantee doesn't live in this neighborhood, it's all people who are completely self-absorbed without a shred of self-awareness." "Wow, that's harsh," Mike said. "You haven't served them," Lily said.

The girl who was to bloom into a night flower was one of four sisters reared by their mother in Salem, Massachusetts. About the time the war broke out, when she was in her middle teens, Betty Short went to work. She ushered in theaters, she slung plates as a waitress. It was the kind of work where a girl too young and attractive would meet too many men.

I got an emergency leave. I visited my dad on his deathbed. His last words to me: "Try to pick up every waitress who serves you.

When the waitress puts the dinner on the table, the old men look at the dinner. The young men look at the waitress.

Can anybody join this FLIP?" the waitress said. "I'm already in a latte recovery group, but there aren't any cute guys in it.

I ordered a pitcher of beer," Morelli said. "Hope that's okay." "It's perfect. I need it now." Morelli whistled through his teeth, and everyone jumped in the restaurant. He raised his hand and mouthed "Beer" to the waitress. "Gee, that's smooth," I said to Morelli. "I'm a Jersey Italian, and my girl needs a drink.

She is a waitress at his lordships club. My God! The Proletariat! The lower middle classes, sir. Well, yes, by stretching it a bit, perhaps.

The waitress was a distracted-looking woman of indeterminate ancestry, acne scars sprinkled across her cheekbones, and she poured his coffee and took his order without actually indicating she understood English. Like the whole operation could be basically phonetic, he thought, and she'd have learned the sound of "two eggs over easy" and the rest. Hear it, translate it into whatever she wrote in, then give it to the cook.

This is so cool: Ceepak's going to tin the entire dining room. Ladies? Gentlemen? May I have your attention please? I am Officer John Ceepak of the Sea Haven Police Department...Because of an ongoing police investigation, your waitress will be temporarily unavailable to serve you. If you require anything, kindly wait until Ms. Lapczyinski returns to the floor in approximately five minutes. Thank you and enjoy the rest of your dinners.

I started doing little amateur nights at the comedy club that was right next to the restaurant that I waitressed in when I was in university. I was probably 22 years old. I didn't do it with any intention of making a career out of it; I had just always valued comedy.

One time a waitress asked me how I wanted my eggs, I said "Cooked".

Halfway across the river I hoist myself on the wide parapet, swing my legs over the edge, and look down in the water for Quentin's body. How does a man in Mississippi in the 1920s create a character who feels more alive to a waitress in 1997, remembered with more tenderness, than most of the boys she's ever known? How do you create a character like that?

A waitress, bringing Finkler more hot water, interrupted Treslove's answer. Finkler always asked for more hot water no matter how much hot water had already been brought. It was his way of asserting power, Treslove thought. No doubt Nietzsche, too, ordered more hot water than he needed.

They drank a few glasses of soda after eating their pie and grooved behind the dope and the waitress and giggled and scratched for a while, then dropped another dexie, got a couple of containers of coffee, and split and continued toward Miami and the connections. They were quiet for a while, listening to the music and feeling warm and secure with the dope and the future, each smiling inwardly thinking about the end of their problems and the panic, at least for them.

This fortune-telling, free-spirited artist-waitress. She's everything his life no longer is. She exudes energy, volatility. His life is routine. He's in a rut, really.

Waitress: Don't be so free with your hands. Fields: Listen honey, I was only trying to guess your weight.

The waitress headed back to the kitchen, shaking her head, wondering what on earth could be funny about pea soup…