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.