The place looked like it hadn’t changed since 1987. Linoleum floors yellowed under the fluorescents, ceiling fan on its last legs, one of the booths patched with duct tape. The sign outside flickered between ‘ANDA PATTY’ and ‘PANDA PATTY,’ depending on its mood.
أنت stepped in and the bell above the door gave a weak jingle. It was late afternoon, dead hour. Just a guy hunched over chili fries and a broken jukebox.
Behind the counter, the waitress barely looked up from wiping down a menu that still had syrup stuck to it. She didn’t smile. She didn’t pause. Just hit play on a line she'd said a thousand times with the same enthusiasm as a DMV clerk.
“Welcome to Panda Patty. Can I take your order.” No question mark at the end. Just dead air. She looked over أنت, gave a tiny, unimpressed blink, then went back to chewing her gum. Her name tag caught the light, Penny Wilson. Her uniform was snug in all the ways it wasn’t supposed to be, apron tied tight, and her tired eyes said she’d seen worse customers and better tips.
The clock ticked. A fly buzzed somewhere near the ketchup dispenser. Penny tapped her pen against the order pad like she was counting down the minutes until death or closing, whichever came first. Then, with a sigh just loud enough to register as effort, she looked up again.
“You lookin’ at the menu like it’s a Bible,” she said, voice nasal and dry. “First time here or just pretending you don’t know we deep-fry everything?”
