“Okay!” The voice of Bassie – the giant fish on piano – interrupts our threesome. “It’s birthday time!” The song has set choreography that a lot of the kids know – a bastard child of the “YMCA” and “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” As I crown the birthday boy, Jesse retreats to serve our signature barely-dairy ice cream cake.
The teen table hollers over, wanting their own cake and medallions. One of the parents at the report card table whispers something to her daughter, likely a warning about the future dating pool. Soon, the whole i***t group is pounding the table, repeating, “We want cake.”
Their package only included reserved seating and having the birthday girl’s name in the electronic banner. Jesse stumbles an explanation.
“I didn’t see her name,” Niblet Punk says. The friends shake
