No waiter shall be the boss of me.

At a venerable San Francisco restaurant, on the verge of the Pacific Ocean:

My friend: I'll have the porchetta sandwich.

The server: Have you ever had porchetta before?

My friend: ...no, I haven't.

The server: Then let me tell you what it is: it's pork belly, wrapped around a pork loin, and roasted. It is a very fatty cut of meat. I say this because sometimes people order it and then, when it comes, it's not what they expected. It's just very, very fatty. So if you're not sure, I recommend the ravioli or the fish.

My friend: [All this discussion of fattiness is enough to give one pause! She thinks it over some more.]

The server: ...it's just by no stretch of the imagination  a lean cut of meat. At all. And if you order, you cannot send it back because it's fatty! [The server is excited. He is exercised. He has clearly had people send the sandwich back, and it has scarred him. The kitchen crew must have mocked him mercilessly.]

My friend: The ravioli it is, then.

The server: Very good. [turns to me:] And for you, miss?

Me: [WOW. The sandwich does sound extra-fatty. But wait: is he daring me to order it? He thinks he has our number. He thinks we are the kind of women who can't handle a little fat. Or a lot of fat. He thinks we're ravioli eaters. No way: that server does not know my life! I am ordering that fatty meat, as God is my witness.] I think I'll have that porchetta sandwich.

...which was, it must be said, delicious.

And also, it must be said: fatty.