Waiter

Last night Boris, Tony the Tasmania and I went for some drinks, then stopped at an Italian place for dinner.
Our waiter took an instant dislike to the rugged, blonde, broad shouldered Boris (skinny Tony and scruffy me were obviously not a threat to his testosterone).
He mostly took offense to the suggestion from Boris that he'd like some vegetables with his meal.
Obviously the menu was perfectly crafted and no cretinous diners were going to mess with this glowing monument to Italian cuisine.
When we were served our food the waiter threw our plates onto the table.
And during one brilliant moment he asked Boris if he wanted cheese on his pasta and then slopped a big spoonful on before he'd even responded.
He crashed around the table, filled our glasses and then fucked off and let one of his cronies deal with us for the rest of the meal.
No doubt our food was full of spittle.