The missus and I had breakfast at Bob Evans today (the Homestead Breakfast, if you follow that link.) The waitress (probably about 20 years old) asked me how I wanted my eggs, and I said “hard-boiled.” She looked at me as if I’d asked for my eggs “cross-bleezled, with a sprinkle of Halon” or something.
“Um, do you mean ‘over hard?’”
“No, hard-boiled will be fine.”
“Hold on, I have to check if we have ‘hard-boiled’ eggs…” (she’s still looking at me as though my head might, at any moment, rotate 360 degrees.)
She disappears for about 20 seconds, presumably to ask one of her cow-orkers whether she knows anything about these ‘harte-boyled’ eggs of which I speak.
“I’m sorry, we don’t cook eggs that way. Would you like them over hard?”
(Hesitatingly) “No, I’ll have them over easy.” (I guess she’d heard of those. They came out fine.)
“When she hauled ass, it took three trips.”