No latkes

LUNCHTIME?

 

The waiter stands beside me, order pad in hand. I don't need a menu and am ready for him. 'I'll have a tuna melt and decaf coffee.' Simple, right? Wrong. 'Do you want potato pancakes or fries?' he asks and I reply, 'I really don't want any potatoes.' He gives me a very dirty look and doesn't budge. Finally, reluctantly, I tell him. 'I guess I'll have the fries.'

 

It's close to noon and the delly is nowhere near as full as it used to be before bad times hit us all. It is depressing sitting here, looking around, aware of the wait staff doing what they are doing–waiting, waiting for diners to fill the room. This is Friday Special time.(I could have ordered the very reasonable whitefish platter but don't like whitefish.)

 

What I enjoy, besides tuna salad, is seeing the parade of mostly seniors, looking them over, mentally rating their attitudes, dress, selections. Not until this slow down time have I realized someone may be criticizing me, seeing if I need a paper napkin around my silk blouse or if I stuff a few Sweet 'n Lows in my purse. It's 11:30 a.m. and aha! my first 'victim' comes in, sits across the aisle from me. He seems to be a clean cut gentleman. I write this description without being certain of his persuasion as his little finger, right hand, is sort of swishy. The man who is brought to the table for two next to mine is a bit older than the swisher. He's wearing a chocolate brown cotton shirt with a wide zipper down the front that is open almost to his cowboy belt buckle. White, almost new heavy walking shoes and especially his hearty appetite, hold my attention. I look away as he looks at me. I avert my eyes by checking my watch to see why my tuna melt is taking so long.

 

In a large booth for six, sits another senior citizen. Evidently he is a regular customer, maybe a relative of the owner, as his order is taken as soon as he sits down. There are many tables for two vacant yet he eats alone. I don't like the color of his windbreaker jacket. It reminds me of the mustard jar on my table. A large bowl of soup, probably chicken, is placed before him. His Ben Franklin eye glasses steam up. He clears them with the lining of his jacket. His waitress sits down with him for a few minutes, tastes his soup, plants a kiss on the top of his bald head and goes into the kitchen.
    
My tuna melt must be burned dry by now. Not having really looked at my waiter, I call the wrong one over to appease me, bring me my lunch or cancel it. Waste of effort. He ignores me. Next time a waiter, any waiter passes, my foot is already practicing how I can (accidentally)
trip him.

 

Quickly I count the group of senior women coming down the next aisle. Eight magpipes drown out any other sound. It takes two of the best waitresses to seat them at the biggest table in the delly. Once seated, three or four get up and switch their positions. One woman, I guess about a hundred and sixty pounds, drops her purse as she moves next to someone she likes better. At least ten of the sixteen eyes, not knowing or caring if the men eating alone do so by choice, need or are married, they check out the single ones.

 

Hooray! Hooray! My tuna melt with an enormous plate of fries is placed before me. The cook must have realized how long I waited, threw in a whole large half done pickle and a dish of too creamy slaw. The shoe string fries are pale and not hot. No problem. I don't want them anyhow. I praise the lord instead of the 'chef' that the tuna melt turned out perfectly. However, the first cup of coffee I had has been empty for twenty minutes. The devil with it. My waiter is in sight and I lasso him. 'Skip my coffee, take away all of this food I didn't order and let me have the check.' That he has, lays it on the table and disappears.
I gather my few belongings, take my car keys out of my purse, put them on my table, look over the check . I really don't think he deserves a tip but I'm a good person and leave him a buck. Near the register are lots of goodies, halavah, chocolate mint paddies, small boxes of bon bons. The halavah mentally calls to me. I add two pieces to my check, charge everything and leave. Well, I was going to leave but couldn't find my car keys. 'Oh, my heavens,' I tell the cashier,'I  must have left my car keys on my table. 'I'll be right back.'

 

As I hurry towards my table, I look and don't see them. They have to be there. Nobody wants my keys. I pull my chair out and search under the table. No keys. I am about to go to the cashier who probably has them by now when Bang, I hit my head under the table and much too loudly use an expletive, 'Aw. Sh- ite.' The laugh of the man sitting across from me, the one with the zipper to his shirt exposing a lot of skin, dangles my keys as if it were carrots for a jackass. I reach for them but he doesn't give them to me. Instead, he tells me his name, Vic Johanson, and he has been intrigued by my patience and my roving eyes.

 

'They're green, aren't they?' he asks.