A Small Café in Paris

By Joe Mallon

“Bonsoir.” He smiles at the waitress.

She returns the smile. She waits expectantly, order pad in her left hand, pen in her right. “Bonsoir, Monsieur.”

He points at the item on the menu to avoid confusion. Salade César.” He points to the other item. “And the Épais Steak de Ribeye. Thick Ribeye. Medium rare.”

“Oui.” She scribbles the order on the pad. Smiling again.

“Merci.” He smiles at his knowledge of French. “And a Coca-Cola. With a lime.”

“Un Coca. Oui.”

“And ice.”

“Oui.”

“Merci.”

He sits. Waits. No Coke. She walks past. Once. Twice. Three times. “Excusez-moi. My Coke?”

“No Coca. Pepsi?”

Did she really say that? “Oui. Pepsi is fine.” He wishes she had told him this in the first place.

The Pepsi appears, no glass. She drops the bottle on his table. She is gone. The third time past, he snares her. “A glass, merci vous plait?”

“Oui.” She smiles.

He waits. He taps his index finger on the wooden table. The glass arrives. “Ice, please? Ice? La glace?” He is pleased with himself for knowing the French word for ice.

“Oui.” She takes the glass away.

He holds the Pepsi bottle. It is growing warm. He yearns for the ice. He watches her walk back and forth past the bar. At long last she returns with the glass of ice.

He looks at the glass. He looks at the waitress. Two miserable cubes float in an inch of water. Water from the melted ice. Water with floating black specks in it. He is afraid to ask for more ice. Fear keeps him from drinking the water. And watered-down Pepsi will not do. He drinks the water, despite his fear. He does not want watered-down Pepsi. He pours the Pepsi. The ice melts.

She has forgotten the lime. “My lime? May I have my lime?”

“Oui.” She smiles.

She returns with a lemon. It is citrus. It is close enough. He forces a smile. “Merci.” He squeezes the lemon into the warm Pepsi.

The Caesar salad arrives, accompanied by a basket of bread. He stares at the salad. The dressing on the salad is gloppy. It sits on top like a thick Caesar turd. Maybe it is Parisian Caesar. His right eyebrow twitches. It must be the hunger.

But at least the salad has arrived, albeit a half-hour after his Pepsi with melted ice cubes and his non-lime lemon. Which, a half-hour after finishing his gloppy Salade César, is more than he can say about his ribeye. His eye twitches again, as does his lip.

A man comes in, wearing a beret. She sits him immediately. They exchange words in French. She puts a hand on his shoulder. They both laugh. The man in the beret orders immediately.

He observes his waitress move to another table of young men and young women her age. She sits, then pours herself a glass of wine. They toast. Drinking with friends? While she works? He waves. “Excusez-moi?”

She looks over. Reluctantly, she puts her wine down. She turns to her friends and says something he cannot hear. They laugh. They look at him as she stands and walk over. They laugh again. He thinks they are laughing at him. She turns and shushes them.

“Oui?” She smiles again.

“My steak.” He does not smile.

“Oui.

“Is it coming soon?” He points to his watch. “It’s been thirty minutes since my salad. Trente minutes.”

“Oui.” She does not move.

“Can you check the kitchen?” His stomach growls. .

Her eyes glance at his stomach. She stifles a giggle. “Oui.”

Hunger is overtaking him. He reaches for the breadbasket. It is gone. He realizes she took the breadbasket when she took the finished salad plate. Both eyes twitch. His lip twitches. Now his leg. The left one.

He waits for her to return from the kitchen. He picks up his steak knife. He runs his finger down the serrated edge. His eyes follow her as she walks into the kitchen. The knife is very sharp.

She returns. She is carrying the ribeye steak. “My steak? Ah, merci.” He smiles. At last.

Her eyes meet his. She smiles. She walks directly past him. She places the steak in front of the man wearing the beret. The man who came in twenty minutes after he did. He cuts himself on the knife. Blood drips down his thumb onto his watch. He does not feel pain. He does not see the blood on the knife.

He fingers the Google Translate app on his phone. It shows him how to ask, “Is my fucking steak coming anytime soon?”

The waitress, though, has returned to the table with her friends. He cannot get her attention. Her friends look at him. They laugh again. She pours herself another glass of wine.

Another customer enters the cafe. She removes herself from the table. She seats him. She smiles and touches his arm. They talk in French. They laugh. He orders the Salade César and the Épais Steak de Ribeye. She places a bottle of Coke- not Pepsi- on his table, a glass overflowing with crystal-clear cubes of ice and fresh slices of lime.

The man stabs his knife into the table. It wobbles. He does not care about the blood on the knife.

The waitress returns to the kitchen with the new customer’s order. He stands, blocking her path. “My steak. I want to talk to the manager. Or the chef. Anybody.”

“Oui. Le chef.” She smiles.

His eyes twitch. His lip twitches. His left leg shakes. His stomach growls. His right shoulder jerks. “Merci.”

“Oui.” She smiles. She pushes past him with the order.

He sits. His stomach tightens.

She returns from the kitchen. Alone.

Pulling the knife from the table, he stands again. He moves in front of her, holding the knife. He widens his stance. She cannot get by. His eyes twitch. His lip twitches. His leg shakes. His stomach growls. His shoulder jerks. He throws his head back and laughs. With the knife, he points toward the kitchen. He raises his voice. “I want my steak.”

She looks at the knife. She looks at him. Another smile. Or is it a smirk? “Oui.”

He drops the phone on the cobblestone floor. He hears the glass face shatter. He smacks the sharp steak knife on the palm of his left hand. He does this several times. The waitress watches. He detects another smile. No. It is definitely a smirk. He is too hungry to tell. 

“Merci,” he says. His eyes are wide.

She smiles, points to the kitchen, and steps aside. “Oui.”

The enormous chef steps out of the kitchen. He is wearing a chef’s hat. A dirty apron surrounds his massive stomach. A lit cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. A three-day stubble covers his face. He holds a plate with an Épais Steak de Ribeye, lopping over its side The thick ribeye. His ribeye. At last. Steak blood leaks onto the floor. The chef’s eyes settle on the crazy man with the knife. The chef scowls. Ashes drop onto his steak. The man doesn’t care. It is his ribeye.

“My steak?”

The chef sits down at an empty table. He stares at the crazy man. He rubs his massive stomach as he drops the ribeye plate in front of him as the crazy man watches. He removes a carving knife from his apron. The waitress brings the chef a Coke. And a lime. And a glass of ice. The chef cuts into the steak. He stabs the piece with his knife and shoves it in his mouth. Blood drips from the steak down his chin onto his dirty apron. The chef takes a long, slow drink of the Coca, his eyes emblazoned on the crazy man holding a knife. Américain? Surely.

L’Américain is astounded. His eyes twitch. His lip twitches. His leg shakes. His stomach growls. His shoulder jerks. His voice raises an octave. “You are eating my thick ribeye? My Épais Steak de Ribeye? Medium rare?”

The Coca pulses down his throat. A guttural rumbling emerges from his immense stomach. He releases a satisfying burp.

The chef’s eyes lock on the crazy man. He nods. “Oui.”