Correct their use of a word in a way nobody asked for. Push off from this if it helps: a badly translated menu.

Right, right. I know that. I’m not an idiot, Rafe. It’s a translation issue, a marketing simplification. But does it actually change how you eat it? The wrapper’s slightly thicker, sure, but it’s still flour and meat. You’re treating a menu typo like a linguistic crime scene. We’re here for the booze, not a seminar on Sino-Japanese culinary taxonomy. Just order the damn gyoza and stop polishing your ego against the silverware. It’s delicious either way.

Imprecise. Exactly. That’s the word I’ve been trying to say without sounding like I’m correcting your grammar at a bar. It’s like calling a Honda a "car." Technically true, practically useless. You’re clinging to this distinction because it makes you feel like you know something I don’t. But we’re both just going to chew on identical dough pockets. Your semantic superiority doesn’t add crispiness to the bottom. Let it go, will you? You’re sweating over semantics again.

You’re eating slower because you’re picking at the crust. I’m eating fast because I’m hungry. There’s a difference. And yes, I called it wrong because I was lazy. Not proud. Just tired. You think “transaction” sounds clinical? That’s because it is. You want the record straight. I want my mouth full. Can we agree that I don’t care about your taxonomy and you don’t care about my appetite? Because right now, you’re winning the argument but losing the evening. Pass the sauce. Don’t look at me like I stole your wallet. I stole your peace of mind. Cheaper.

Fine. It’s on record. Gyoza is pan-fried. You’re satisfied? Good. I’m just glad we got that cleared up before the check comes. You could have saved us both the mental energy if you’d just asked for the menu correction instead of treating it like a personal insult. But no, you had to be right. And now you’re right. There. Happy? I’m done discussing the structural integrity of dough. Eat your gyoza. Or whatever you want to call it. I’m going to get another drink. You coming or staying here to polish your point until it shines?

You say it like you just solved cold fusion. It’s a dumpling. You’re welcome. I’m buying the next round to compensate for the emotional labor of listening to you parse syllables. Stop posing. You look ridiculous when you’re smug. Let’s go. Before I start questioning why you insist on being technically correct in a world that runs on approximations. Actually, no. I’m not questioning it. I’m just tired. Your version of "gyoza" is louder than mine. That’s all. Come on.

Correct face. Right. I’ll take that. You’re always so composed. It’s exhausting. I’m over here sweating through my shirt, you’re over there sipping water like a monk. We’re not the same. But fine. You’re correct. Gyoza is pan-fried. I’m lazy. Let’s go. I need a drink that doesn’t require a glossary to order. You coming? Don’t just sit there looking pristine. Move. The bar’s closing in ten minutes. And if you start explaining the etymology of “beer,” I’m leaving you here.

Fastest? Sure. Whatever’s pouring quickest. Probably that cheap lager you pretend to hate but actually love because it’s uncomplicated. Like your argument. Straightforward. Easy to digest. I’m ordering. Don’t move. And don’t start lecturing me on hops versus barley now. Save it. You’re correct, I’m lazy, we’re drinking. Just sit there and look smugly correct while I handle the actual social interaction. It’s your superpower. I envy it, really. Mostly because it requires zero effort on your part. Unlike this queue. Look at it. Everyone’s talking about their day. I just want liquid.

You hold the table like a man guarding state secrets. Fine. I’m in the queue. The guy ahead of me is ordering a cocktail with six ingredients and a smoke cloud. I’m just getting a beer. Sometimes the world’s complicated enough without adding garnish. Don’t move that chair. If I come back and you’ve recited the periodic table to the empty seat, I’m dumping my drink on you. And stop smiling like you’ve won a war. It’s just lager. And gyoza. Two facts. Nothing more. Give me my drink. And don’t touch my seat.

Because of course I would. I’m a walking argument waiting to happen. Fine. I’m moving. You sit there like a statue carved from condescension. “Nobody’s reciting anything.” Right. You’ve got that look. The one that says you’re already bored of me. Good. Let it drive you. I’ll be back with two cold beers and zero intellectual stimulation. Try not to age too much while I’m gone. It’s bad for your complexion. All that tension. You look like you’re holding your breath. Relax. It’s just a drink. Or whatever you call that liquid courage you sip.

I’m not holding it up, I’m brooding. There’s a difference. The guy in front is still arguing with the bartender about IPA bitterness levels. It’s tedious. You’re sitting there, pristine, judging my inefficiency. I know you’re smiling. It’s the “correct” smile. The one that says, “Jo, you are failing at basic social rituals.” Fine. Let me fail. I’ll bring back two beers and my dignity will remain thoroughly lost. Try not to die of boredom while I’m gone. Or start a fight. Anything to keep your face out of that smug, correct mask. Hurry up, bartender. My friend is judging me.

Waiting. Right. You wait like you’re meditating. I wait like I’m being held hostage. That’s the difference. Your stillness is terrifying. Anyway, bartender’s moving. Two lagers. No smoke clouds. No poetry. Just cold, brown water. I’m coming back. Try not to stare at that chair so hard it catches fire. And stop humming. It’s distracting. You think silence is golden? It’s just awkward. I’m bringing the noise. Literally. The clinking of glass is my apology for being a chaotic mess. Sit tight. Don’t touch anything. Especially not your dignity. It’s safe with you. For now.

Humming. Of course. I’m imagining it because it suits your stereotype. Go get the beers. I’m already moving. Don’t think I didn’t see you check your watch. You’re impatient. The man who claims to have all the time in the world to correct menus is checking time. Hypocrisy. I’ll be back in ten seconds with two cold, unremarkable beers. Try not to appreciate them too much. It might spoil you. And stop looking at the door. Nobody’s coming. Just me, bearing gifts and bad attitudes. You’re welcome.

Liar. You were checking. I saw the wrist flick. Classic Rafe. Always watching the clock, never the man. The queue’s moving? Good. Then get in line. I’m not standing here holding your place while you play detective. You want beer? Earn it. Or don’t. I’m going anyway. You can sit there and refine your “waiting” face all night. I’ll bring back two warm ones if I have to. Just stop looking at me like I’m a puzzle you haven’t solved yet. I’m not. I’m just hungry. And annoyed. Mostly annoyed.