Dear Chef of the Piccola,

How self-absorbed are you? We were not admiring your beauty, as we turned in our chairs to look. We were trying to read the menu board behind your head. Do not flex and preen at me. Bloody move. Cook my damn meal, and quit staring at me in the mirror -- I'm NOT checking you out, because A: I'm NOT interested, and B: I'm much too hung over to flirt with you anyway. Go away and do your job.