The Bitter Wine Memento
Unsatisfactory
"Sir, pardon me, but the kitchen is closing for the evening. If it would be alright to clear your table…"
I look down on my plate. Upon that I meekly agree to the waiter’s polite suggestion with a nod, not even recalling having finished my dinner, let alone starting. But it was indeed no longer there.
The man’s lithe fingers collect plates and glasses instantly and in a practiced manner place them on his arm respectively in the cup of his palm. I watch as he brushes crumps off the table cloth with a handkerchief and with some trouble flicks the wick of the almost burnt out candle so for it to burn steadily. At first I think it is a ridiculous waste of time and watch his battle with pitying amusement. He tends so decisively to what soon can never be tended to again. He restores a delicate flame for a little while, vainly, purposelessly, so the fire will die in a more honourable way. Yes, at first I pity, until I realise the flame is me. It is me.
"I hope everything has been to your satisfaction."
"Satisfactory? I am afraid not. Meals never do last long enough, do they? One comes to wish they would never end sometimes. But they do, and what have you then to do than drink up your wine and leave? Not satisfactory, but quite enough."
The waiter looks at me with surprise. I am not polite, which is his character.
"Oh… well, I’m very sorry, sir, that we did not meet your expectations."
"That’s quite fine; I don’t believe I ever had any. I tried to dine, as well as I have lived with myself. But it is all useless when you breathe. One cannot eat then, when one breathes, I mean. Utterly pointless, do you not agree?"
He is now speechless and his façade of straightforward waiting has fallen from his face. The man now stands beside me, still balancing the kitchenware, deciding whether to take my words for the words they are or drunken ramblings. Perhaps he tries to recall to himself just how much wine I have had. He decides at last. It is nonsense.
"Very well, sir. Can I entice you with another drink of wine? I will of course give you the rest of the bottle, on the house. Please accept it as a token of pardon for our not meeting your standards. I will bring it."
"Much obliged. Perhaps next time I will try that bass."
I take with a worn smile in the corner of my mouth his “token of pardon” for the bribe it is. An affair has taken place, one he must be used to by now. I have given him the hint of a promise to be back in return for a last drink. It is business, and this I think as I watch his great canvas of a back disappear behind the bar. He has no smile then, he doesn’t bare his teeth. He is ordinary and will return soon with the phoney front again placed firmly in front of him and my bargain of a drink. After all, I will never walk through those doors again. I would never know the sensation of a sleepless night again.
I look down on my plate. Upon that I meekly agree to the waiter’s polite suggestion with a nod, not even recalling having finished my dinner, let alone starting. But it was indeed no longer there.
The man’s lithe fingers collect plates and glasses instantly and in a practiced manner place them on his arm respectively in the cup of his palm. I watch as he brushes crumps off the table cloth with a handkerchief and with some trouble flicks the wick of the almost burnt out candle so for it to burn steadily. At first I think it is a ridiculous waste of time and watch his battle with pitying amusement. He tends so decisively to what soon can never be tended to again. He restores a delicate flame for a little while, vainly, purposelessly, so the fire will die in a more honourable way. Yes, at first I pity, until I realise the flame is me. It is me.
"I hope everything has been to your satisfaction."
"Satisfactory? I am afraid not. Meals never do last long enough, do they? One comes to wish they would never end sometimes. But they do, and what have you then to do than drink up your wine and leave? Not satisfactory, but quite enough."
The waiter looks at me with surprise. I am not polite, which is his character.
"Oh… well, I’m very sorry, sir, that we did not meet your expectations."
"That’s quite fine; I don’t believe I ever had any. I tried to dine, as well as I have lived with myself. But it is all useless when you breathe. One cannot eat then, when one breathes, I mean. Utterly pointless, do you not agree?"
He is now speechless and his façade of straightforward waiting has fallen from his face. The man now stands beside me, still balancing the kitchenware, deciding whether to take my words for the words they are or drunken ramblings. Perhaps he tries to recall to himself just how much wine I have had. He decides at last. It is nonsense.
"Very well, sir. Can I entice you with another drink of wine? I will of course give you the rest of the bottle, on the house. Please accept it as a token of pardon for our not meeting your standards. I will bring it."
"Much obliged. Perhaps next time I will try that bass."
I take with a worn smile in the corner of my mouth his “token of pardon” for the bribe it is. An affair has taken place, one he must be used to by now. I have given him the hint of a promise to be back in return for a last drink. It is business, and this I think as I watch his great canvas of a back disappear behind the bar. He has no smile then, he doesn’t bare his teeth. He is ordinary and will return soon with the phoney front again placed firmly in front of him and my bargain of a drink. After all, I will never walk through those doors again. I would never know the sensation of a sleepless night again.