"Beg pardon! I know you're on duty, but could I interest you in a cocktail weenie all the same?" Julien proffers a tray with tiny sausages speared by toothpicks. They almost certainly aren't called cocktail weenies, but this sounds funnier.

His smile is perfect, brightly subservient, but one of his palps is wipe, wipe, wiping the side of his face, and he's watching in all directions.