"I'm sorry," you begin before admitting to the proprietor that you don't have any money. Mom and Pop are upset at first, but when you offer to wash dishes, they see an opportunity.
"Right this way," Pop says, leading you back to the kitchen. "We've got a dish room back here. You finish up the dishes in there and your meal's on the house. Deal?"
"Deal," you agree.
When he opens the door, the sight is a seemingly post-apocalyptic wasteland of porcelain plates and chrome cutlery. It spreads on forever, or at least as far as the eye can see, with stacks of bowls and plates towering over the horizon. "Good luck!" the aged fellow shouts as he slams the door, leaving you inside.
"Wait!" you shout, "I didn't agree to this!" You pound on the door, but it doesn't open and nobody answers. All you manage to do is dislodge an avalanche of dishware which buries, crushes, and eventually suffocates you.