We went to a conveyor sushi bar last night.
The inevitable compatridos showed up. They occupied two stools and called the waitress. They held long negotiations at the top of their voices with each other and the waitress on the kind of fish they wanted. “Salomon!” they cried out. “Salmon should be ready later” replied the waitress. They did not like that. “Tuna!” they proposed. “We have no tuna today, sir” the waitress apologised. They called for the maitre d’. They made their point (quite audible). They finally chose some dishes from the conveyor.
Then they called the waitress again, for soup this time. Then they spent time making idiotic puns and weak jokes, so characteristic of the pitiful substitute that passes as ‘wit’ where I come from. Urgh. They were talking loudly enough for everyone to hear. Then they called the waitress again (Note: there is a table service sushi bar next door. Why on earth did they not go there?) Then one of them said “Hey man, we are the only ones to occupy the personnel here.” Good. Then they left. Even better.