Reflections (I)
2021
The Waitresses of America d av i d d a n i e l
T
he trucker crumpled his napkin, dropped it on the Formica counter, and rose. “You’re brave, young lady,” he said. The waitress smiled tentatively. “I am?” “Serving food this bad? Shit, yeah.” From where I sat three stools away I saw her cheeks warm, her bashful spirit shrink. The man pawed the wallet tethered to his belt by a chain and strode tight-jawed for the cashier. I inventoried what he’d left on his plate: a half-gnawed chicken leg, fat congealed on the gray skin; some pallid green peas; a pasty dinner roll. The problem though was the baked potato. Partly unwrapped from crinkled gray foil, one bite gone, it was small and shriveled, and it was sprouting eyes. “That was wrong,” I said to the waitress. Her eyes flicked my way. “Blaming you for the food. There’s the culprit.” I pointed. “No telling where that guy’s from, but this is Maine—if anything on that plate’s gotta be right, it’s the spud. Again, it’s not your fault, but folks come off the road looking to eat. You’re the public face of this diner. You should take it up with the chef.” A bit of her smile returned. That was in Skowhegan. There have been other times, other places. A pizza joint outside Utica; a pancake house in Altoona; a catfish shack in Biloxi. And the time in Galveston where, after a chicken-fried steak, I inquired about dessert. “Pecan pah,” the waitress said. “Homemade.” “That’s for me. And can you serve it a la mode?” Her bluebonnet-blue eyes widened. “Pecan pah Alamo?” It wasn’t Texas humor. She didn’t know. I explained about the scoop of vanilla ice cream, and she was happy to bring it. Some of the confusions are regional, or historical. Like the time explaining to a Maryland waitress that a cheeseburger “royal” used to mean with lettuce and tomato. Or that New England seafood favorites quahogs and scallops are “co-hogs” and “scollops.” And how in Massachusetts “tonic” is what elsewhere is soda or pop. It seems most everyone’s worked in a restaurant at one time or another, so shouldn’t we all learn from each other and share the wealth? I had a kindly waitress (who reminded me of my mother) correct me in a voice as quiet as the sound of her foam-soled shoes, so as not to embarrass me in front of others, that “Croquette” was pronounced with a hard t, and not like the lawn game. I doubled the tip. Eating is the heartbeat and the breath of being alive. Kindness is the key. Which brings me to the night I sat in a 24-hour diner with coffee. It was in Lowell, Kerouac’s town, late, just the waitress, the cook back there with his white paper hat askew,
The Lowell Review
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