The Waiter by Matias Faldbakken

Author:Matias Faldbakken
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Gallery/Scout Press

BOAT

EVERY BIRD SINGS WITH ITS own beak, the Maître d’ says. This applies not least to Raymond. He draws out his vowels when he speaks. When he comes to order food, these long vowels blend with the notes being produced by the fat fingers of Old Johansen playing away up on the mezzanine. Old Johansen has drifted into a Rachmaninoff lullaby; it’s beautiful, but also fairly slow and deeply tedious, I must say, a strange choice for this time of day. The woozy Raymond orders entrecôte with the tune tinkling away in the background. He has a deep voice, Raymond. He sounds like a baritone. His order becomes some kind of miniature musical. He wants the entrecôte done medium well, and for the sauceboat to be “compleeeeetely” full of béarnaise, he says. To the brim. He adds that he only needs half a portion of onion compote. I say, “Wonderful.”

On the whole, mastering speech, says Edgar, is primarily a case of ignoring the embarrassing untruths we deliver in every sentence construction. Untruths and inaccuracies, not least. Raymond doesn’t struggle with that. His order of entrecôte and a full-to-the-brim sauceboat, which he delivers in harmony with the music, is a joy to the auricles. The ears. To us waiters, who might find ourselves dealing with all kinds of stuttering during orders, it’s nice, from time to time, to be served a decent order, if I can put it like that.

Bratland is worse. His language doesn’t add up; the syntax creaks and groans. The order goes wrong. “If you wait two minutes, I’ll write up the day’s specials on the board,” I say. “Why can’t you just say them?” Bratland asks. “I like to write,” I say. I bring out the three-legged stool, climb up onto it, and stretch as far as I can: the board is high up; everyone needs to see it. As I reach the d in “tournedos,” the chalk makes a shrieking sound which causes Bratland to swear. He digs one finger into his ear. I continue with “coq au vin,” the chalk screeches, and Bratland swears again. “You’re cutting my favorite music to shreds with your racket,” he says. I ignore him and draw a firm line between the food and wine recommendations; the chalk squeals so loudly that Bratland huffs and puffs again. “Like a bradawl to the brain,” he mumbles. I put away the stool and point to the board. Bratland squints. “I can’t read that scrawl,” he says. I explain that it says tournedos and coq au vin, but the truth is that I’ve written “turdonés” and “couq au vergin.”

“I don’t want that anyway,” says Bratland.

“Wonderful,” I say. Sellers orders confit duck thigh, like always.

“The petits pois are still ripening?” he asks rhetorically.

“They’re far from full maturity.”

“You know, I want them basically unripe.”

“They’re absolutely verging on unripe.”

“And could you ask the chef to add a tiny splash of veal gravy to the thyme gravy?”

“Of course,” I say.

•

The dinner guests start to arrive. Edgar and Anna’s food is ready, and I take it out to them.

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