If I modify your french-fry order to include “special loving,” will the the chef massage the potatoes? Shower them with kisses? Add a special sauce?

I wonder if the Board of Health has concerns about such a button…

Redolent
Remains of
Half-eaten
Finger
Sandwiches

Lipstick-rimmed
Crystalline
Corpses
of Uncorked
Spirits

Laughter
and
Longing
Lingering
in the Eaves

One night might be “Coney Island” night, where, separately and for no easily discernible reason except kismet, every table seems to order at least one of the same drink (Coney Island Lager).

This past Thursday night it was: “Split-My-Check-Every-Which-Way Night.” I often have one or two split checks in an eve, but on this night it seemed that EVERYone wanted to split, and no easy splits, at that. One twelve-top split their check four ways, paying variously with five different cards and cash; a six-top split theirs seven ways (one check each for individual drinks, one check for the group for food).

Perhaps you think, what with computers and all, splitting checks is easy. Well, the computers help, but the process is still time-consuming and rife with the possibility of screwing up, especially once you go beyond a single split. Also, it can throw your server completely off their groove.

I know, I know. It’s all part of the job. Still, customers can make it easier by asking for separate checks up front (i.e. no splitting necessary later) or simply aggregating funds and paying in cash at the end.

Dream on, you say? Well, maybe the next theme will be “All-Cash Tip Night.”

“Homeless,” was my first thought. But, then, “wealthy.” Something about him did not lend itself to easy definition. His clothes were similarly indecipherable, somewhere between shab and couture. He held himself tall, stately. But he seemed broken somehow.

I passed him once, twice, three times. Sound seemed to be drawn into him like a black hole, such that each time I passed I could notice only him, despite the Saturday-night fray of youthful energy and chatter all around. He refused to hold my glances, as if he were shy,…or evasive. He had no drink or food before him.

He wasn’t in my section, so, at first, I didn’t ask if I could help him. But, after several passes, I noticed he was still without refreshments.

“May I get you something,” I asked gently.

For the first time, he looked back at me. “No, I’m fine. Just waiting for some people.”

Maybe that explained why he had no food or drink yet. Why he was so alone in the midst of so many people.

“Okay, then. Just let me know if you need anything.”

I wandered off on other tasks.

A few passes more and he had ensconced himself upon the tall bar stool near his corner, his back still to the wall, still without food or drink. Still alone.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to order something while you wait?”

I handed him our beer and wine list.

After glancing at it, his eyes found me again. Something like a sad smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “I’ll take the Couronneau.”

A beautiful Bourdeau. Clearly, he had some experience with wine.

“I’ll put that right in for you.”

I entered the order, waited for it, and returned with his glass, the aroma of it drifting up to my nose, intoxicating.

“Please enjoy,” I said as I set it before him.

He gave a barely perceptible nod.

I left him to his thoughts.

He nursed the drink for awhile.

“How’s the wine?” I asked, as I passed when he seemed nearly through.

“Very good. How much is it again?” he asked, startling me a bit as I thought he was still waiting for friends and would want to run a tab for a bit. Most people simply ask for the check.

“It’s $12.” Our most expensive glass. “I can go get your bill if you like.” I was momentarily worried, recalling my first impression, would he think it too much?

“Here.” He immediately pulled out $14 and handed it to me.

“Thank you, sir.”

The inscrutable nod again.

Shortly after, I noticed he was leaving. His eyes drifted past me as I passed him going the opposite direction.

“Goodnight, sir.”

He didn’t seem to hear me.

I turned to watch him leave, wanting to ask him to stay, wanting to ask some questions. To get to the root of the sadness. To help in some way if I could. To find out who he was, or at least for whom he’d been waiting.

But waitresses are rarely let in on such things.

The door shut behind him.

The noise swallowed the space left behind.

Become a waitress!

I call it the “Waitroid Weight-Loss Plan.”

First: get a serving job at the sit-down restaurant of your choice.

Next: run around non-stop like the proverbial chicken for four+ hours as you serve your customers. There’s your exercise.

Also: spend your shifts too busy to eat lunch or dinner. There’s your calorie reduction!

Finally: pick up your paycheck and laugh (or limp) all the way to the scale and your bank.