there’s nothing better than donuts
“So how is the salmon prepared?” my mother asks, with a quizzical look on her face - as if salmon were something as exotic and unfamiliar as calf’s-brain francobolli. After asking the question, she reclines on her dining chair and takes a sip of wine.
“The salmon is grilled and on top of a warm asparagus salad,” the waitress replies with a look of impatience on her face. Its a look so commonly worn by people in Los Angeles, a condescending glare that suggests no tolerance for a lapse of time not denoted by a paycheck or a promising gig.
My mother continues to ask how each of the specials are prepared, sipping wine and nibbling on bread as the waitress recites each ingredient and preparation method of the evening’s entrees. She acts as if she is at a dinner theatre, our server being the unimpassioned actor juggling words… trying not to confuse polenta with cornbread.
The server’s knowledge of the menu has become a new criterea for my mother in her judgement of a restaurant. Its almost as if my mother is a stand-in judge for a new reality television show, in search of America’s Next Top Service Industry Worker. But its not as if she actually listens to words the waitress says, the detailed description of how the short-ribs are slow cooked. Its more the tone of the server; the description of the meals must be a cathartic sonnet or a passionate soliloquy, banality is not left unnoticed. In fact the waitress described in great detail the preparation of the sea-bass, as if it were her senior culinary thesis. Two minutes later, my mother asks, “now tell me, how is that sea-bass prepared?”
Just as the waitress scrambles for her pen, assuming we’re ready to order, my mother lifts her head from her menu. “Now tell me, if you had to choose three entrees on the menu, what would you choose?” The waitress, obviously in a state of panic, peruses the notepad in her hand.
“I really like the prosciutto-wrapped rabbit and the buffalo tenderloin,” the waitress stated defensively, with a certain sense of entitlement over the menu items. Her favorites seemed a bit strange to me, as she just reeked of veganism… her small frame and frizzy hair in an irritating harmony with her soft, elusive voice. But she’s a carnivore, and I’m instantly suspicious.
I have had a strange bout of suspicion as of late. I don’t know where this sudden lack of trust has come from - its completely out of control. While dining at a similar establishment for lunch, I was instantly skeptical of a red-headed hostess who gave me a peculiar look as she seated our party. She kept looking over at our table with a scowl on her face. I remember thinking to myself, “I’ve never seen such an awful look before.” And just as I was observing her mysterious gesture, she whispered something in the ear of one of the servers. In between bites of my salad, I watched her every move, assuming that with every pass by our table she was plotting some sort of sinister scheme. Which is why I perked up in my chair, like a sleeping soldier startled by a rumble in the front, when she appeared at our table.
“I believe your waitress forgot to bring your coffee,” she says to my mother, as she placed the steaming coffee cup on the table in a very calculated manner. She slowly left us, giving me that same awful look I saw as I entered the restaurant.
“Don’t drink that coffee, mom,” I demanded. “I just, I just… have a really bad feeling about that coffee and that waitress.” Believing me for a few seconds, she stared green-eyed at the cup before her. Then she just sort of shrugged her shoulders and took a sip. I imagined her taking a sip, seeming normal for approximately three seconds, followed by her turning pale and grabbing her neck in anguish, flailing her poisioned self on the table as if she were a catfish being dragged onto shore by a fishing line, the hook caught in a gill. The suspect waitress would then be seen leaving the restaurant as a brunette, cryptically typing something in her Blackberry while cackling. Feeling defeated and anxious, I also took a sip of the coffee. If she was going down, I was going with her.
Still alive, while drinking her coffee, my mother once again told me the earliest memory of her grandmother. It was a story I’ve heard hundreds of times before, but always like to hear. “She never wore any underwear. (My sisters and I) used to lie on the floor and look up her skirt as she walked back and forth through the kitchen.” I laugh and my father gives a look of endearing disgust. “I was her favorite grandchild. Every Sunday morning, before church, she would put my hair in a bun in her pink-tiled bathroom. She would then serve me coffee milk in the fanciest cup I had ever seen.” Her eyes became a bit red, an emotional reaction I had never seen before in conclusion of the story. “Its funny that you can be aware of adoration at such a young age.”
* * *
“Okay, so now if you were to choose three appetizers that would complement the three entrees you mentioned, what would they be?” The waitress wears an exhausted look on her face, tired of solving menu riddles. The waitress looked at my mom as if she were a restaurant critic from Neptune. Each answer became less and less spirited, ultimately resulting in the waitress giving us more time to think about our order, despite the fact that my father and I had decided several minutes ago.
Perhaps the waitress would have remained spirited if she knew the joy my mother got from hearing the details of the menu. If the waitress considered the affect of grilled salmon semantics on my mother, she may have been a bit more inspired. But the server wasn’t paying attention to details and nuances, she was nervously tapping her pen against the pad, wearing a veil of sophistication.
After hearing about the preparation and ingredients for the desserts, my mother looked at her menu for a few more moments.
“I think we’ll have the donuts,” she said as if she had ordered the honey-braised pumpkin tart. “There’s nothing better than donuts.”