Critics at the Café Litéraire

—Garçon! demands the patron at the table next to mine, in stentorian tones.

—Oui, m’sieu?

—Take this away. It is abominable, abominable! How dare you bring me a...a children’s portion!

—Oh, m’sieu, I am so sorry. I thought—

—You, capable of thinking? You insect! Such presumption. Do you not know who I am?

—Of course, m’sieu. I would not dream of deliberately insulting a man of such eminence—

—Oh stop blathering, you cretin, and bring me something of real substance!

—D’accord.

The waiter scurries off, but not before I see him hastily slamming a polished silver cover upon the food that insulted my neighbor so: Anne of Green Gables, with a side order of Little House on the Prairie, garnished with Charlotte’s Web. It is indeed childish fare, but it is by no means lightweight. I gaze after it longingly.

Soon, my order arrives.

—Voilà, mamzelle! cries the waiter triumphantly, whipping the silver dome away with a flourish.

I look at it, and quail. The entire body of the works of James Joyce. Beautifully arranged in the order of publication, but oh God, it is too heavy. I shall never digest it all. Even before I put my fork into it, I know that what I have been served is overdone and tough, not to mention far too thick. And too heavily seasoned for my taste—a musty, smoky, marinated-in-whisky scent clings to it. I try several times to make a start, but...

—Garçon! I gesture, hoping it looks imperious enough for the waiter’s keen eye.

—Oui, mamzelle?

—I fear there has been some mistake.

—Oh? The waiter’s eyebrows rise.

—Yes. You see, that gentleman’s order must have gotten confused with mine. I certainly did not order this, any more than he ordered that.

—C’est bien possible, mamzelle. Very well, I will exchange the meals. But please, I beg of you (and here he bends and whispers)—do not let on that m’sieu has been served a meal that is less than freshly cooked, else my job is... He makes a slicing motion with one hand across his neck. —D’accord?

—Oui.

So the man at the adjoining table gets the James Joyce, and proceeds to dine on it with grunts and exclamations of satisfaction.

Meanwhile, I dig into the children’s books. They are sweet and tender, yes, but very satisfying, with a tang of sea salt, rolled oats and wildflowers.

-- SCB
©1999 Sabina C. Becker