There’s a Chi­nese restau­rant that my office mates and I fre­quently dine at called The China Buf­fet. The owner, a short and stocky man with pierc­ing eyes, runs the place like a spit-polished fac­tory keep­ing his wary eye on his employ­ees, mak­ing sure every penny is accounted for. We like to call him the Sama­rai and it’s not just because he’s of Asian decent, but mainly due to the fact that he barks com­mands as if he’s con­ceal­ing a sword behind the counter.

The other day we ordered three drinks and filled our plates with at least three trip’s worth of Chi­nese food. After­wards we gob­bled down ice cream to cool our palettes and then came time to pay the bill. The owner, dubbed “Samu­rai Jack”, asks for the bill and slowly scans each item as if he’s con­cen­trat­ing on a really dif­fi­cult cross­word puz­zle. He looks up, then down, and finally asks if I will be pay­ing with cash or credit. I pull out my wal­let and slide my credit card across the counter and he pauses, “I see two drinks on bill. Did you have a soda?” I nod­ded and in Chi­nese he barks some com­mands at the wait­ress who in turn barked com­mands at the bus­boy. At this point the owner explains that even though it’s not on the bill I will still be charged for the drink. I shrug and tell him, “Fine.”, then at the top of his lungs he says, “$7.84! You pay the same as all the rest. $7.84!”

I sign the receipt and walk out the door, laugh­ing to myself and think­ing that this man, “Samu­rai Jack” should have his own sit­com. I envi­sion it as a cross between Belushi’s The Samu­rai Butcher and San­ford and Son.