The Game of Desserts Part II

    Berries, they look good, don't they?

I thought the game ended. I had admitted defeat, waved my white dinner napkin in the air, stopped protesting dessert delivery. Game over, naïvely, that's what I thought.
But I was wrong.

We are on what is called a back-to-back cruise or consecutive cruises, so we stay on the ship for 30 days. But that means when guests from the first leg disembarked, new guests arrived. For the crew, the first couple of days of a new cruise are busy. This is good news for me.

On the busy embarkation day, only berries arrive for dessert. 
Me: May be he gave up or ran out of recipes.
R: May be he doesn't know you are on this leg.
Whatever the reason, the next night again only berries arrive for dessert.
Me: (Slightly giddy) It's over. He knows he won. (I relax. No more food fights).

Not so fast little white haired celiac lady, you don't know the rules of this game.

Two nights in a row, the chef slightly goofs up on my order, one night forgetting to add rice noodles to a stir fry and the next serving my pasta dry. I pay a price for his goofs.

SERVER: Let's see what the chef has made for you.
ME: (Meekly) Ok.
I'm presented with a little chocolate cake and a big bowl of berries, "I'm sorry for the
goofs" gifts.
The next night, a little vanilla cake arrives and two bowls of berries. I take one bite of the cake and eat as many berries as I can hold. I remind R that the next day I'm heading to the gym.

    Vanilla cake and double berries. Game back on.

SERVER: You don't like the cake?
ME: Not really.
SERVER: Some times they are good and sometimes not.
These guys are always optimistic.
Unable to simply watch this drama without joining in, the head server and the maitre de 
assume roles.
The head waiter starts monitoring my food consumption. That evening, I eat half my 
enormous salad.

WAITER: You don't like the salad?
ME: It's too big. Too much food. (Immediately, I know I've uttered the wrong words. He'll take what I've said as a challenge).
WAITER: Maybe tomorrow I make it smaller.
ME: Ok.
By now, I know that will not happen because I live in the world of opposites. The next night, my salad is larger than R's. My words are meaningless.
We are now three days at sea and apparently the maitre de, growing restless, needs a 
project.
That evening, bread arrives.

HIM: Try this. You haven't had any bread. I had the chef make this for you.

He presents me with four pieces of gluten free focaccia.
ME: Ok.
I force R to eat a piece and I eat part of another.
HIM: We'll have this for you every night. We'll just keep it in the back.
ME: (Forcefully) No. I don't want it.
HIM: Ok, just tell me the night before when you want it.

No one listens to me.
Dessert arrives. Something new with chocolate. I'm thinking when will this guy run out of 
recipes?

The head waiter takes my order for the next night, a salad and salmon.
WAITER: That's all.
ME: That's all.
WAITER: I saw yesterday at lunch what you ate, you don't eat enough.
ME: I eat plenty.
WAITER: No, not that much.
He tells R that tomorrow at lunch he wants to see us in his station. My thoughts turn paranoid. I wonder if the kitchen has a watch list, a kind of "America's Most Wanted" for
 those accused of under-eating on the cruise ship. My thoughts worsen, perhaps there is a surveillance camera? I'm being watched?
Honestly, even my parents never monitored my food intake this closely.
I rouse myself from my paranoid thoughts and on my way out of the dining room I chide the maitre de that they are trying to fatten me up. He laughs. Regrettably, I think they've 
succeeded.