The Geographical Meal

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Waitress: Hawaii, Mister? You must be Hungary.
Gent: Yes, Siam. And I can't Rumania long, either. Venice lunch ready?
Waitress: I'll Russia table. What are you Ghana Havre? Aix?
Gent: You want Tibet? I prefer Turkey. Can Jamaica cook step on the Gaza bit?
Waitress: Odessa laugh! Alaska, but listen for her Wales.
Gent: I'm not Balkan. Just put a Cuba sugar in my Java.
Waitress: Don't you be Sicily, big boy. Sweden it yourself. I'm only here to Serbia.
Gent: Denmark my check and call the Bosphorus, Egypt me. There's an Eire. I hope he'll Kenya. I don't Bolivia know who I am!
Waitress: Canada noise! I don't Caribbean. You sure Ararat!
Gent: Samoa your wisecracks? What's got India? D'you think this arguing Alps business? Why be so Chile? Be Nice!
Waitress: Don't Kiev me that Boulogne! Alemain do! Spain in the neck. Pay your Czech and don't Kuwait. Ayssinia!
Gent (to himself): I'll come back with my France and Taiwan Zanzibar is open.