Carded
It was 10am at the Templeton Diner on a Saturday, and a cluster of six chatty girls squeezed their way into the busy restaurant. The small booths in the Templeton accommodate two people comfortably or four people cozily, so the only option for seating six was four in a booth and two in the nearest diner stools, which put them next to me.
"Can I get you girls some coffee? Tea?" the perky waitress asked.
"Um, I'd like a White Russian," said one.
"A Bloody . . . uh . . . Caesar," said the next.
"Cuba Libre," came the more distant order of one of the girls in the booth, along with three more muffled cocktail requests.
"I hope you don't mind, but I'm required to check ID for any alcohol sales."
Out popped six Oregon state drivers' licenses, and from what I could tell from the nearest ones, each of them showed a large birth year of either 1986 or 1987.
"Ah, so you girls are up from the States?" the waitress remarked. "Been here long?"
"No, just got in late last night. Leaving tomorrow morning."
A lower-minimum-drinking-age field trip, by all appearances. . . .
"Can I get you girls some coffee? Tea?" the perky waitress asked.
"Um, I'd like a White Russian," said one.
"A Bloody . . . uh . . . Caesar," said the next.
"Cuba Libre," came the more distant order of one of the girls in the booth, along with three more muffled cocktail requests.
"I hope you don't mind, but I'm required to check ID for any alcohol sales."
Out popped six Oregon state drivers' licenses, and from what I could tell from the nearest ones, each of them showed a large birth year of either 1986 or 1987.
"Ah, so you girls are up from the States?" the waitress remarked. "Been here long?"
"No, just got in late last night. Leaving tomorrow morning."
A lower-minimum-drinking-age field trip, by all appearances. . . .