Jose was awesome; he brought in the table with the room-service and explained “I added a few pieces of bread to your order.”
“Thanks! I love carbs with my carbs!*” and he laughed with me as I signed the bill and handed him some cash with it.
“I spilled a bit of the wine (nudge) (wink) I’ll run down and get you another glass, on the house.” He was back in a few minutes with another glass of wine. I told him he was my new best friend. Jose spoke with a south of the border accent and was about as hispanic as you can be on this continent.
I made a rueful gesture and said “Sorry about the election.”
“Oh, no!” stoutly declared Jose, “I voted for Trump. It’s OK.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!? You’re a member of one of the minorities Trump specifically blames crime on!”
“Yeah, well, Trump tells it like it is, man. He’s not part of the rigged system. He’s real,” Jose’s shrug spoke volumes.
“Fascinating,” I shook his hand again as he was heading out the door, “how someone who lies about pretty much everything ‘tells it like it is.'”
I bolted both glasses of Bacchus’ remedy and got to work on the email and other stuff that had piled up during the day; I had a redeye home the next night and couldn’t afford to be tired, hung over, or depressed.
(* Spaghetti bolognese)