The tangerine waitstaff loped table to booth table to booth, customers crowded practically swinging from the rafters. Mr. Turtle and Ms. Marjoram offered compliments to the chef: their food was splendous. Mr. Dog wasn’t pleased with his meal. The waitstaff led him through, over, under twisting dining pathways to the kitchen to lodge complaint.
Back there in the greasy dinge steam chugged from appliances, boiling pots were stacked teetering to the ceiling and fogged figures of cooks scampered, fell with edibles. Only the head cook was clear with his gargantuan hands it was hard to work, he waved to direct cooks but nearly toppled various things, it was difficult. It was very difficult to work.
Still Eating Oranges