True Tales of the BBQ, pt. II: The Walkouts

I worked at NYC's famous (infamous) Dallas BBQ from 1993-1998 as both a server and a bartender. These stories are true. I hope to make this a column much like the New York Times' Metropolitan Diary. Bon Appetit.
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Oh what clever scamps! The saucy party of 7 at table 205 sends their Waitron Errant to the pantry to wrap their left-over food for their journey uptown. Said waitron returns to find the group, perhaps swept up in a grand joie de vivre has left our fine brasserie with no small celerity. Our hero exits the restaurant through the front door in a near panic--for he does not have the means to cover their bill-of-fare. Oho! They ran to the bus stop in front of the restaurant where they wait for the M101. Moral: remember your getaway car!
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The charming couple and their brood (their propensity for eating is outmatched by their fecundity of reproduction!) in Section Four send our intrepid hero to the pantry to fetch more bleu cheese dressing to take with them--and please! Wrap those wings! When he returns they have vanished in a manner akin to a A. Conan Doyle novella!

But what is this? A clew! A young Cindy Loo-hoo returns from the loo looking for her family that has absconded without paying! But never fear, dear reader, for all was soon set right when the sheepish patriarch returned to the building to take his delightful offspring back to the manse.

"Forget something?" quipped our eager protaganist with a wink as he handed said gentleman the check.