Kamal was delighted as he rubbed his chubby fingers together. He had taken a restaurant program and was now in charge of his own restaurant in Toronto. Not just one that he managed, but owned.
Standing at the opening where kitchen staff handed out dishes to wait staff, he surveyed both parts of the enterprise – from the chef and sous chef working away on beef bourguignon to the waitresses that walked around in their black mini dresses that he had himself chosen.
Kamal thought of pinching all the three waitresses bums at once, and chuckled, knowing deep down that he would never have the courage to do this. He did not have enough hands, for one.
This was the dream he had always had, in a sense. There was the dream to be a gym trainer, and then the one to train company managers, and also the one to run his own project management consultancy. Really what those all boiled down to was Kamal owning his own business where he told people what to do, like a slightly taller but more portly Napoleon.
Putting his hands in his suit pocket, Kamal walked forward into the dining hall to do what really was his favourite part of his role – speaking to guests.
“Hoho, how is the meal?” he asked a family of four who were having salmon.
“Bit cold still hoho,” he commented to an old couple who were finishing their tiramisu.
For a man who spoke from deep within his throat without enunciating properly, he was doing well since he made sure to stand close to diners as he spoke to them, particularly now that mask mandates had been relaxed.
His one mistake took place on a cold January day when he walked up to a party of 8 to ask about their meal. Pushing his large girth forward, he hovered above one of the eight diners, who, unbeknownst to Kamal, happened to have a sever care of OCD and mild autism.
“How is the risotto hoho?” Kamal asked, trying not to eye the leftover risotto on the plate as well as the bosom of the curvaceous blonde across from him.
As he said this, Kamal’s hanging moob touched the shoulder of the man with the OCD, who had already tensed up as the former pulled up. Kamal, not being that sensitive to others’ discomfort, had not realized this.
“WHATTTHAAAFAACKKK” was the exclamation from the man with OCD, who both pulled away from Kamal’s large nipple that could be felt (and seen) through the formal white shirt, and also shot up into the air.
In doing so, the man hit Kamal in his ample chin, pushing him backward.
Like a sort of overweight hip hop dance artist, Kamal half-fell, half-walked backward as his lean changed from forward to backward. Everyone in the restaurant drew a breath as he petered close to the ice sculpture in the corner of the room.
Other than choosing the waitresses uniforms and counting cash, the only real work Kamal did was personally making the ice sculpture once a week. He insisted on it. A local ice vendor brought in a block of ice for him to work on. Kamal painstakingly spent a couple hours carving this block of ice into a naked man. In his mind, the naked man represented himself, but with abs and far less heft.
Kamal crashed into the sculpture, grabbing and breaking the penis as he did so. The table on which the sculpture sat collapsed, of course.
Becoming known as the restaurant with the big boobed owner that grabbed an ice penis as he fell did not help the establishment’s reputation.
Rainbow Kandura 