Thursday, December 4, 2014

Waiter 1 : Diner 0




Indian waiter magisterial this afternoon at Paul.
         Table secured against the window looking down across the paved concourse onto leafy Orchard Road. Lamp overhead, the Little Sparrow piping, Chin millionaire if-not-better wives with big curled hair.
         Wallpaper, windmill landscapes (understandable confusion), cold fire-place with brushes, pan and poker smoothing the creamy latte. ($5.90.)
         Change-wallet delivered like a missive from a brother prince over the hill in the neighbouring valley. If you will allow Sire, almost curtsied.
         Thank you so much my man, my fellow. Smile and raised hand half-way into the air. (Lacking courtly French both sides dumbshow must needs sufficed.)
         Black leather (surely not vinyl) touched the table surface for a brief, uncertain moment. Was the man’s hand removed for an instant, finger detached and lifted? Too quick to be sure.
         Look of appraisal bent close at elbow, cheek-bones poked. As if a hidden switch had been thrown, eyes beaming; brow-gleaming like a rocky promontory after rain.
         The momentary blinding enabled the article to be whipped out of sight.
         — ….Hey! What?... Come back here with that you.....
         Choked in back of throat.... Gasp. Swallow. Splutter. Damned cheek.
         Hail him then if you wanted to demean yourself, if you wanted to collect your four dollar ten cents you Cheap-skate, let everyone hear. Call the manager, go on holler your lungs out best you can, be my guest. Big flash tipper.
         — .... Oh. Here you are sir…. Oh!... Let me get that ten cents that’s rolled…. under your shoe sir. Sandal.... There you are. Have a nice day.
         Was he on four dollars an hour here? Costumed in Figaro servant-gear that was counted an added benefit of the position, new guy unsighted previously almost gypsy.
         Eleven dollars ninety for six week old LRB— priceless excoriation of the second-round Martin Amis on the Holocaust by the German poet/translator Michael Hofmann; another $1.70 for Pilot WinGel 0.7. Kinokuniya recently down-sized and relocated on the fourth floor at Takashimaya. (History and something else equally inconsequential chief casualties, as well as Foreign Language.)
         Ten buck average slurp like you would pay at authentic Paul on the Champs Elysees—established 1880 something—here on the equatorial plantations white sugar in brown sachet.

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