Three Vignettes, Each Featuring a Waitress is a travelogue by Jack Rusher, published here Monday, March 17, 2008. It is part of Memories.
I didn’t order this, but I’ll take it anyway.
“I went home with a waitress, the way I always do /
How was I to know she was with the Russians too?”
— Warren Zevon, Lawyers, Guns and Money
Spanish
As I entered a tiny Barcelona restaurant, there was a dark, lovely Spanish girl coming out. Our eyes met and lingered, and I thought to myself that it was a shame she was leaving just then.
I took a seat by the front window and saw through it that she wasn’t leaving at all, but taking the order of a couple at an outdoor table. She dropped off those instructions with the kitchen, walked over to my table, bent low until our noses nearly touched, then said two words.
“Tell me.”
French
In a New York literary café, talking with a French waitress.
“I’d like the darkest, richest chocolat chaud you can make.”
“Oui, monsieur!”
She prepared the chocolate using the milk frothing apparatus attached to the café’s espresso machine, then placed it and a glass of water on a silver tray that she delivered to my table with a small ceremony.
After I’d had a few minutes with the chocolate she came over to ask how it was. “It’s good, though I prefer it more… chocolate.”
She made a scandalized face, seized the cup and ran back to the machine. When she brought it back it was perfect, and I told her so. She smiled and said, “I know,” then, holding eye contact and leaning in conspiratorially, she whispered “I tasted it.”
Brazilian
A Brazilian waitress at a French café saw me sitting in the back, writing in my notebook. When she brought me my tea and pastry, she asked “Are you a writer?”
“Well, I write, so in some sense.”
“You look like a writer.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“That depends on how you feel about books.”
“Do you like them?”
“I read… voraciously.”
I looked around and noticed there was no one else in the place.
“Would you like to sit down for a bit and share my pastry?”
She did.