King Shawarma & Old Saigon Cafe
A handsome man with jet black hair and jet black stubble spoke with an even more handsome middle eastern accent. "Can I help you sir?" Why yes you can. Spencer, talk normal. Cough. Cough. "Yes, could I get—" I realized I hadn't looked at the menu and fought through the awkward pause I needed to make up my mind. "Could I get a beef shawarma?" "Yes sir," he said calmly, as if my awkward pause hadn't existed. Another pause ensued where I tried to figure out how to pay. I prefer the credit card tap. But the thingy didn't have a tap thing. So I inserted. "Would you like your receipt?" he asked. "No thank you," I said and sat down. I scrolled to not look like a psycho staring at him. I looked briefly around the restaurant that doubled as backstock: empty cardboard boxes, upside down chairs and step stools smooshed into the far end of the room. "Here you go," he said, offering his first half smile. Not that ...