Image via Wikipedia The waiter at Bibi’s Brunch & Lunch was clad in regulation white shirt, black pants and Doc Martens. A spotless white cook’s apron was wrapped around a waist smaller than one of my thighs. The artfully messed hair and the wispy flavor-saver under his disapproving mouth had been bleached to a rusty blond. My guess was, he had a BA in Representational Art and was waiting for his first big break exhibiting cast iron fetish pieces at a local gallery. Alicia smiled as she pointed towards the front of the restaurant. He shook his head, no, but when we didn’t follow him to the spot he had picked for us by the open kitchen, he grudgingly came back and sat us…