The Bitter Wine Memento

I return from my thought as the wine licks the inside of the glass. It escapes the neck of a dark bottle with an aged label. It is held up by the spirited waiter, now with his back proudly braced by his well-shaped structure. Over his arm a stainless white cloth is swung, in the traditional manner. Through the dark, appearing only as faint white pearls, his teeth are showing. He smiles to himself while pouring the dark liquid into my glass. Some hidden habit of mine, linked to the war days, awakes within me and I start searching for the reason why he smiles. “He’s one of those cloaked spies”, is the first thought that hits me. Before I have time to reject this scarring thought, my heart races for a moment, evoking a further trail of thoughts. “I wonder if that’s a Nazi uniform I see through his shirt. Smiling, I bet that’s what the German’s do before they kill. Heartless bastards; damned cold-blooded sons of bitches”.

The flowing liquid runs dry. My glass is full. The young man’s smiling face turns to me. His eyes, full of a smarting joy, holds mine in a mesmerizing way. In that moment I manage to drag myself out of my sunken pictures and imaginary ideas that still remain after so many years. I just see a pair of chestnut eyes, sparkling chestnut eyes, filled with a heart-breaking honest glee. A carefree child’s eyes, a man in love’s eyes, or those of a humble woman. A gentle, most genuine woman; the kind of woman you love.

"Have you taken a look at the menu? What is the gentleman’s preference for this evening? I dearly recommend the kitchen’s sea bass. It is the chef’s personal favourite, as well as mine. Bar en croûte de sel, bass in salt crust with a nice beurre blanc sauce. It tastes as though the Mediterranean Sea is rolling on the ridge of your gums. Lightly, but under the weight of the salty shell."

I can’t for the life of me let go of those eyes. The talk of sea bass sounds as if spoken across the room. It is not present. I hold on to those eyes as I in confusion try to concentrate on the subject of food.

"Oh, quite so? Good sea bass here? I think I will have something a little heavier, though. Beef to go with the red wine. If I’m not mistaken, you serve rib eye steak?"

"Oh, yes. Entrecôte marchand de vin with a side of French style potatoes. A very popular dish, sir, rich and brutally satisfying…"

As he speaks passionately of his French cuisine, his irises appear to float around on the surface of his eye-ball. They are shifty, but constantly smiling at me. Sometimes his eyelids close down on them, when he reaches the climax of how delicious one or other dish is. I think then that the spell is broken, but before I can look away, they open and enchant me with as much glee at me again. “He is madly in love”, I think, “in unhindered, stormy love”.

"…So I suggest the exotic experience of the kitchen’s boeuf en brochette."

"Thank you very much, but I think I will have the rib eye."

The small chestnut suns tinder at me one last time, before the boy bows and they disappear into darkness. His voice has a tone of disappointment when he speaks again.

"Very well, sir. I will have it right out. A pinch of thyme on that sir?"

"Thyme… oh, no. No herbs for me."

He walks away and his grand posture vanishes into the background. But on my corneas, a distinct image of golden brown eyes remains.