Darjeeling It was supposed to be temporary. Id land my audition and wouldnt end up being just another cliché waitress waiting for her big break. After having worked here at this cafe for fifteen years, any aspirations above clearing tables and taking orders had long been forgotten. This was not to say I disliked my work. I came to enjoy the simplicity of waiting tables . I sated my love of drama with weekly drama workshops at the community center and even taught the occasional class. I had been in community theater the week before as Audrey the country wench in As You Like It. Daniel, an elementary school teacher by day and our director on weekday evenings, had told me that I would be perfect for the part for my ability to feign ignorance and play stupid; (unbeknownst to him, something I had never deliberately done. Ouch.) Today I am sitting in the aisle seat of a flight across the channel to Paris, where Ill be taking a few days off. Itll be my first time abroad, and Im excited. Im traveling light, too. My small carry-on suitcase still shines with the glossy sheen of newly bought plastic and smells faintly of spray paint. (It had been a dreadful fluorescent yellow when Id bought it on sale. I guess it was too ugly to sell, and the man at the store would have probably given it to me if I had asked.) Airline tickets being what they are, exorbitant despite the relatively short distance, I had bought a can of black spray paint and masked the hideous yellow with the vigorous motions of someone attempting to exterminate a mosquito, ruining my jeans in the process. So much for austerity. I lower my seat and put in my earphones, selecting my French podcast from my iPod. I close my eyes and repeat, “Un cafe, s”il vous plait.” My mind wanders back a year to the woman who put me on this plane. It was a particularly busy Saturday when the small French woman trotted in. She was wearing a chic grey suit and sunglasses that were too large for her face. Her frail, turkey-like neck was enshrouded in a fluffy mink. Her high heels left strange impressions in the welcome mat as she breezed past me without waiting to be seated and took a table on the terrace overlooking the rose garden. She set her purse down on the table, lit up a slim, and started flipping through a monstrous novel. I hurried to her side. “Excuse me, madam, this is a non-smoking cafe.” “Oh?” She replied, and I saw her eyebrows twitch lightly above the arcs of her sunglasses. She took a long, final drag of her cigarette, blew out an in interminably long cloud of smoke, and handed me the butt, which I took. She turned her attention back to her novel. “Darjeeling.” She said, without bothering to look up. “Hot or cold?” I asked, and she responded by raising her eyebrows again, this time ever so slightly longer than the last. I took that to mean hot. Or perhaps cold. I wasnt sure, so I just stood there for a moment with the heat of the smoldering butt edging closer and closer to my fingers. “Hot.” she said at length with a strongly aspirated “H”. I went to the kitchen, served a few customers, and returned approximately five minutes later with the womans tray. I set down the pot, the cup and coaster, the small ramekin with the sugar lumps, and the complimentary biscotti. I turned to leave, but she called after me. “The tea isnt going to pour itself, cherie.” I flushed angrily, but turned around and poured her cup. “Also, I didnt ask for these.” she pushed away the sugar and biscotti with two fingers. “Im diabetic. It is being three months that I am out of the hospital.” she added emphatically with another strongly aspirated “h”. “Im sorry.” I cleared the offending items and hurried away to attend some pleasant customers. Out of the corner of my eye, I continued to watch her with a confusing mixture of loathing and admiration. I saw as she put the cup to her lips, and put it down. She also put the book down, and the corners of her perpetual frown took a sharper turn south. She clicked her tongue, looked round, and snapped her fingers in the air. To my relief the other waitress who was there that day, I think it was Liz, headed toward The Unpleasant Woman, but was waved away. I tried to hide, but she found me instantly and beckoned me with a manicured index finger. “What seems to be the problem?” I asked. She removed her sunglasses slowly with her left hand, folded them carefully, and placed them beside the novel, which, with accusatory, wrinkle rimmed eyes, she seemed to accuse me of halting her perusal of. “Is this what you English are calling tea now? Appealing.” “Appalling?” “Absolutely appealing.” She nodded affirmatively, holding up the tea bag tab. “What is this I am holding? Is it a tea bag?” “Yes.” “Cherie, If I did wanted a cup of tea made with the tea bags, I could stayed ome. You will bring me a proper cup of tea. Take this away.” She replaced her sunglasses, picked up the book in one hand, and waved me off. In the kitchen, I asked Liz where I could find the loose leaf Darjeeling tea, and she replied that we didnt have any. I sighed, and did what any waitress with a brain would do. I took scissors, snipped a tea bag open, emptied the contents into a strainer, and made a second pot. I held my breath as I poured the second cup and waited as she took a sip. “The water is much too hot, but it is a little better now.” she said. “Will there be anything else?” I asked. “That kind of service would be unacceptable in Paris.” she said, ignoring my question. Near my house there is a cafe where I am sometimes going. We serve nothing but the best. It is not takinng ten minutes to serve a satisfactionary cup of tea.” “I apologize.” “It is not your fault. It is the culture who has raised you to be lazy and slow.” “Well I dont think thats fair.” “It matters neither what you think nor what I do. Some are born into greatness, and some have it thrust open them. Im afraid you are neither.” “Is it your first time in London?” I changed the topic. “I am coming quite regularly for work.” She said. “I am an actress, you know.” “Are you? Might I have seen you in anything?” “Perhaps. Mostly French. Moliere, Flaubert, Hugo, Chekov.” “Of course.” I said, nodding perhaps a little too vigorously. “I want to be an actress too. Its always been my dream. Do you think I have what it takes?” She looked me up and down for the longest five seconds of my life, and sipped her tea. “No. Like I said, some are born into greatness, and others have it thrust upon them.” “Twelfth Night.” I said, remembering the line from the play. “Yes, yes. An immortal line by Malvolio. I played Olivia...but I havent always been great. I used to be a waitress once, long ago.” she said. “It helped me a lot.” “How?” She looked right at me, in the eyes. “I now can pretend to like people who I care absolutely nothing about.” I nodded, taking mental notes. She left about an hour later. That was the last I ever saw of that mink, the dress, and the sunglasses. Stepping out of the airport, I hail down a taxi and and, in bad French, ask the driver to take me to the Hotel Etoile. The painted surface of my bag has started to peel, and the black flakes are making a trail on the floor as I pull my case along the corridor, into the lift, and to the room where I will be staying for the next few days. After soaking in the hot tub, I decide to go out for a late afternoon stroll. After buying a few trinkets and postcards in little souvenir shops, I suddenly feel tired and decide to go for a quick coffee. Ill have it strong with lots of sugar. I seat myself in the far corner of the cafe, and the waitress, a small woman with tired eyes comes to me with the menu. Our eyes meet, and I recognize her instantly. It takes her a bit longer, but she quickly regains her composure and assumes a voice which indicates we have never met, and that I have no reason to dislike her. “Vouz-avez choisi?” She asks as pleasantly as she can. “Darjeeling, sil vous plait.”
Posted on: Wed, 23 Oct 2013 23:21:54 +0000
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