A man strolled into a busy restaurant and found himself a seat. The moment he sat down, he couldn’t help but notice—the place was full of gorgeous waitresses.

One, in particular, caught his eye. She was curvy, confident, and wore a skirt short enough to make his heart race. With legs that seemed to stretch for miles, she glided over to his table and, in a sultry voice, asked:

“Are you ready to order, sir?”

The man quickly glanced at the menu, then slowly looked her up and down before saying with a sly grin,

“A quickie.”

The waitress froze, her smile vanishing. Her cheeks flushed crimson, and without a word, she spun on her heel and stormed off.

A few minutes later, still fuming but professional enough to try again, she returned. “Sir,” she said firmly, “have you decided what you’d like?”

The man leaned back in his chair, gave her another long, deliberate look, and repeated with confidence,

“Yes… a quickie, please.”

Her hand flew before he even saw it coming—SMACK!—a slap that echoed through the restaurant. She stormed away for good this time.

The man sat there, rubbing his cheek, baffled. Then the gentleman at the next table leaned in and whispered helpfully:

“Buddy… I think it’s pronounced quiche.”