Dear Man at the Next Table Who Treated the Parmesan Like It Owed Him Money

Dear Man at the Next Table Who Treated the Parmesan Like It Owed Him Money,

Thank you for tonight’s unexpected culinary thriller. I was simply enjoying my pasta when you reached for the Parmesan shaker and proceeded to aggressively pulverize your plate like you were salting a driveway in a Michigan blizzard.

Sir, I have never witnessed someone commit violence with cheese until today. You weren’t sprinkling; you were summoning. The way you shook that shaker, I thought it might file a police report. Even the server paused mid-step, probably wondering if she should call security or a dairy therapist.

At one point, the Parmesan dust cloud got so intense I genuinely lost sight of you. I was sitting three feet away and suddenly felt like I’d been transported into a snow globe filled with lactose.

You kept going long after any sane human would’ve stopped. The rest of us finished our meals, paid our checks, and you were still there — arm pumping like a CrossFit workout, eyes locked on your plate as if achieving a spiritual cheese awakening.

By the end, there was more Parmesan than pasta. It looked like a carbonara avalanche. I’m pretty sure the restaurant hit their monthly cheese budget in one sitting.

Sincerely,

The Diner Who Is Still Coughing Up Parm Dust (and wondering if you’re okay, truly)