It's the last day of the cruise. We are headed up to New York City and overnight we left the tropics as evidenced by this morning's chill. As a treat, and because Serge was still sleeping, I decided to go to the dining room for breakfast. I had heard that eggs benedict was/were served there, and, well, if there's one thing I can't resist, it's an egg mcmuffin with hollandaise. Even the pussy (to be read as the adjective form of the word pus) eggs don't bother me since what is hollandaise anyway but creative yolks. When you arrive at the dining room they ask if you want to eat with others or not. Normally, I would just eat with others, but it being first thing in the morning and me being coffeeless, I opted for a table alone. I figured the book in my hand would have said it all, but they asked me anyway and showed me to a table that I could have turned around and touched. Protocol was followed though and the lead hostess handed her helper a menu and asked her to lead me to table 217 which, of course, we arrived at instantly. It was like if a cashier had an assistant to hand you your change. I gladly accepted this table figuring I was that much closer to having coffee flowing down my gullet. It also crossed my mind that this was a kind of punishment, that hogging a whole table to myself merited being seated in the worst spot in the room. Even though I had a book, I didn`t get much reading done because I was eavesdropping on all the patrons arriving behind me. It`s been a long time since I worked the door of a restaurant. Did I really tolerate such horrible treatment when I worked in the biz? I suppose I did but boy I wouldn't be able to now. Everyone who came in said something along the lines of, "Gimme a window table." No please, no may I , no would it be possible. Just an endless parade of I wants and give mes. The more outrageous wanted a table alone AND by the window AND far away from the kitchen AND with a particular server. Obviously the hostess was unable to seat everyone at the window, so you can imagine the displeasure expressed by some. You'd think they had just been told the restaurant was flat out of breakfast. Since this was happening behind me, I couldn't see who was behaving so boorishly. My imagination filled in the scene with a cavalcade of warted trolls and shriveled tanorexics shaking their rolexed wrists in anguish. Really, I've seen more polite teenagers, and that's saying something. When my plate arrived, I cut each of the eggs benedict in two and then each half into three giving me about 12 bites. They were quite delicious and though no one would have batted an eye had I ordered a second plate, I couldn't help feeling guilty for the humanity arriving behind me. These folks have enough trouble without the pig asking for more eggs benedict. When I left, the hostess thanked me cheerfully and reminded me that tonight was grand marnier souffle night. Thank god our table is far from the door.