The Waitress

Sometimes I think I should put up restaurant reviews on this blog. Except I rarely eat out.

The reviews would be different, of course. Like I'd leave out the food part.

For example, yesterday I had the pleasure of taking my niece out for lunch in the German Colony. She chose a fine french (kosher) sidewalk cafe.

The waitress is the hostess and busboy, too, and gently guides us to a table by the window. She changes the table cloth while we wait and we sit down. I can watch everything from where I'm sitting, it's perfect.

She's of medium build, wearing black slacks and a black blouse that's a little too big. Her hair is dark, skin pale, and her eyes are that chocolate brown that draws you in. Seems to me, however, that she's forcing herself through her day, not smiling particularly, and is avoiding eye contact.

Except she knows she can't, because she has to do the job and seem friendly and helpful. That's the job, right? And if you want gratuity that's gracious, that's what you do.

Now, I've got a touch of whatever is going around, and only want a bowl of soup, but FD and my niece order nice lunches. There's no way that even healthy I could have had more than that soup, a marak kruvit, cauliflower soup, light but believe me, not so light.

We caught up on life and I suggested dessert. The tarts and mouse beckoned us, and we settled on a lemon meringue and creme broulet. The waitress, I see, is sipping from a glass of red wine at the counter.

I'm not used to this, but it makes me feel bad. We savor the sweets, pay the bill. I tip a little more than usual.

Out on the sidewalk I turn to my niece. "She seemed so TRAGIC, no?"

Yes, she agreed. You noticed, too!

A different kind of restaurant review.

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