'Waiters', a new short story by Daniel Handler
Aug 2, 2020 23:32:27 GMT -5
gothicarchiesfan and Optimism is my Phil-osophy like this
Post by Esmé's meme is meh on Aug 2, 2020 23:32:27 GMT -5
It was published today on the San Francisco Chronicle. I think the webpage won't let you see it unless you suscribe, so I cheated a little bit to get it.
*****
The amuse-bouche was a dumpling in the shape of the virus: spherical, settled in a small puddle of broth, dotted all over with little flash-fried sprouts, and when people forked it open, something steamy and thick poured out. Fontina? Polenta? San couldn’t hear. There were only four tables at Colander, as far away from each other as possible. The virus, the shape of it, was always rolling slow laps in San’s head. He couldn’t stop picturing it. The people at the table didn’t mind. You could tell from the way they were overdressed that they were here for themselves.
Colander had one of the best dining experiences on offer. The chef was, San couldn’t remember her name, famous — she’d tried a socially distanced tapas bar, where they armed everyone with 6-foot tongs, but it’d been closed for every reason you could guess. Here the interior was designed by two guys who left the CDC to help restaurants reopen. The ceilings were very far away, two floors up or something, and had some ventilation system that was, it said on the website, the equivalent of a hot, windy day. It was hot in the place, that couldn’t be avoided. People didn’t seem to mind. Twelve courses, wine and kombucha pairings, $1,500 prix fixe. San’s share of the rent, was how he thought of $1,500.
“Sorry I’m late.” Jules sat down across from him, leaned in, leaned back without kissing him.
Social kissing was still in the Not Worth It category in most people’s heads, along with trains and the symphony. She wore her usual jumpsuit and had a shaggy leather bag that looked like the head of a bearded hippie. Out came her sanitizer and a little plastic mat she unrolled onto the wooden table. Some people felt better with these. San remembered when the rolled-up mats everyone carried around were for yoga classes, which were about 50/50 on Not Worth It.
“I’ve heard about this place.”
“I think everybody has. Is that a new mask?”
She twisted some valve to droop it to conversation mode. “It’s a C.E. Koop. Well, a knockoff.”
“I like it,” San said, and caught a server’s eye. The staff masks had some shiny twist across the center, that, as the server approached, caught the light. It was the name of the restaurant, in some shimmery laminate that seemed to float over the mask, which in turn floated over the mouth.
“Welcome,” the server said. “Let me just check your temperatures, ask the Req-Qs and inquire about dietary restrictions. Waiters, yes?”
San nodded, which interrupted the infrared of the fever-checker. It took another second to get two calm beeps from each of them. “Is that OK?”
“Oh, of course,” the server said. “Waiters welcome. OK, Req-Qs?”
“No,” Jules said, “no, no, yes, no, three weeks.”
By now everybody had memorized the six required questions all indoor businesses had to ask before beginning any transaction, so they gave their answers first, meaning that everyone sounded like a broken robot when they entered anywhere. This had already been turned into a stuttery electro hit by Hot Brix. “No, no, no, yes, no, five weeks,” San told the server, and Jules gave him the raised eyebrows of, “OK you win.” “What do you think you can sneak on? I know you’re prix fixe.”
The server gestured not to worry. “We’re so used to this on weekdays we basically built it in. What time’s the diner?”
San glanced at his phone. “Seven.”
“Plenty of time then. We basically condense the middle courses into a big platter, symmetrical so your forks don’t even have to meet. Risotto, plantains, the uni petit-fours, and then mackerel, unless you prefer chicken.”
“Who prefers chicken?” Jules said scornfully.
“Tourists, natch,” the server said. “Now we usually skip the first course you can see over there. It’s a dumpling —”
“Shaped like corona,” Jules said. “Everybody’s seen the movie.”
A sous-chef, since canceled, had posted footage of the dumpling-in-progress, the filling inserted via syringe. Conspiracists had gnashed their teeth for a cycle or two about it, that the chef was a Marxist seeking to infect the rich, but it seemed to San that what was really objectionable was just bad taste. He surely wasn’t the only one who had the little spiky ball in mental orbit. It was the reason he was single. It was the reason he was broke. It was the reason he jumped like a jackrabbit if he saw anyone’s mouth. He didn’t want to eat it.
“Yeah, we’ll skip it.”
The server shrugged in agreement. “The wine you’ll have to cover yourselves, but there’s cider on tap.”
“Cider’s fine,” San said.
“Actually,” Jules said, “I want a martini.”
“Olive? Twist? Caperberry? Pencil shavings? Ceramic? Sage?”
“Surprise me,” Jules said, waggling her fingers goodbye at the server, and then leaned close to San when they left. “What’s a caperberry?”
“Big caper. You know that’s like, a twenty dollar martini minimum.”
“It’s the only thing we’re paying for.”
“We tip.”
“OK, OK, I know the point you’re really making.”
“And that is?”
“That you’re worth it,” San said, “and you are.”
She beamed at him, both hands on the mat. “It’s good to go out,” she said, and San made the gesture that he was reaching for her hand later. They’d touch when they got back to her place. There was no reason, even after dating what, four months? — to risk it extra in a place like this.
Most restaurants couldn’t afford customers. Not ones who ate in. The restrictions, as susceptible to fear as they were to science, changed so quickly that by the time you paid for the plastic dividers, the plastic dividers were illegal. The super pricey places, the upper echelon playgrounds, were the only ones tricky enough to make it. Colander didn’t take reservations, of course. Why would they? They had a distanced line outside that, on weekends, turned into a bidding war. The surer bet was Waiters, an app that had sprung up right quick. San didn’t drive anyone around anymore, with the windows open and the clear plastic shield rattling between the front and back seats. San didn’t wander the grocery aisle looking for the right hot sauce, texting the impatient customer who might lower the tip. This is what he did. He sat in a restaurant at 4:30 p.m. for three hours, and he did it with his girlfriend. This is how they made it.
The tough part about going out wasn’t meeting people, or talking to them, or even the sex, first onscreen and then, with proof of negativity, at long last in a bed. It was going out. If you could only afford cheap places, and the cheap places weren’t open, you signed up on Waiters and showed up early — squatted, was how no one was supposed to describe it — for a prize table.
Restaurants like Colander knew Waiters were holding tables, and they usually tossed them a few courses, snuck into the real customers’ bills. It was a sweetheart deal, perfect for sweethearts.
The martini arrived, and Jules toasted San. San sipped the cider, each bubble like a tiny little dumpling virus on his tongue. The problem was not how to have a love life during a pandemic.
The problem, and this was every problem in San Francisco, was how to do it when you weren’t rich.
*****
The amuse-bouche was a dumpling in the shape of the virus: spherical, settled in a small puddle of broth, dotted all over with little flash-fried sprouts, and when people forked it open, something steamy and thick poured out. Fontina? Polenta? San couldn’t hear. There were only four tables at Colander, as far away from each other as possible. The virus, the shape of it, was always rolling slow laps in San’s head. He couldn’t stop picturing it. The people at the table didn’t mind. You could tell from the way they were overdressed that they were here for themselves.
Colander had one of the best dining experiences on offer. The chef was, San couldn’t remember her name, famous — she’d tried a socially distanced tapas bar, where they armed everyone with 6-foot tongs, but it’d been closed for every reason you could guess. Here the interior was designed by two guys who left the CDC to help restaurants reopen. The ceilings were very far away, two floors up or something, and had some ventilation system that was, it said on the website, the equivalent of a hot, windy day. It was hot in the place, that couldn’t be avoided. People didn’t seem to mind. Twelve courses, wine and kombucha pairings, $1,500 prix fixe. San’s share of the rent, was how he thought of $1,500.
“Sorry I’m late.” Jules sat down across from him, leaned in, leaned back without kissing him.
Social kissing was still in the Not Worth It category in most people’s heads, along with trains and the symphony. She wore her usual jumpsuit and had a shaggy leather bag that looked like the head of a bearded hippie. Out came her sanitizer and a little plastic mat she unrolled onto the wooden table. Some people felt better with these. San remembered when the rolled-up mats everyone carried around were for yoga classes, which were about 50/50 on Not Worth It.
“I’ve heard about this place.”
“I think everybody has. Is that a new mask?”
She twisted some valve to droop it to conversation mode. “It’s a C.E. Koop. Well, a knockoff.”
“I like it,” San said, and caught a server’s eye. The staff masks had some shiny twist across the center, that, as the server approached, caught the light. It was the name of the restaurant, in some shimmery laminate that seemed to float over the mask, which in turn floated over the mouth.
“Welcome,” the server said. “Let me just check your temperatures, ask the Req-Qs and inquire about dietary restrictions. Waiters, yes?”
San nodded, which interrupted the infrared of the fever-checker. It took another second to get two calm beeps from each of them. “Is that OK?”
“Oh, of course,” the server said. “Waiters welcome. OK, Req-Qs?”
“No,” Jules said, “no, no, yes, no, three weeks.”
By now everybody had memorized the six required questions all indoor businesses had to ask before beginning any transaction, so they gave their answers first, meaning that everyone sounded like a broken robot when they entered anywhere. This had already been turned into a stuttery electro hit by Hot Brix. “No, no, no, yes, no, five weeks,” San told the server, and Jules gave him the raised eyebrows of, “OK you win.” “What do you think you can sneak on? I know you’re prix fixe.”
The server gestured not to worry. “We’re so used to this on weekdays we basically built it in. What time’s the diner?”
San glanced at his phone. “Seven.”
“Plenty of time then. We basically condense the middle courses into a big platter, symmetrical so your forks don’t even have to meet. Risotto, plantains, the uni petit-fours, and then mackerel, unless you prefer chicken.”
“Who prefers chicken?” Jules said scornfully.
“Tourists, natch,” the server said. “Now we usually skip the first course you can see over there. It’s a dumpling —”
“Shaped like corona,” Jules said. “Everybody’s seen the movie.”
A sous-chef, since canceled, had posted footage of the dumpling-in-progress, the filling inserted via syringe. Conspiracists had gnashed their teeth for a cycle or two about it, that the chef was a Marxist seeking to infect the rich, but it seemed to San that what was really objectionable was just bad taste. He surely wasn’t the only one who had the little spiky ball in mental orbit. It was the reason he was single. It was the reason he was broke. It was the reason he jumped like a jackrabbit if he saw anyone’s mouth. He didn’t want to eat it.
“Yeah, we’ll skip it.”
The server shrugged in agreement. “The wine you’ll have to cover yourselves, but there’s cider on tap.”
“Cider’s fine,” San said.
“Actually,” Jules said, “I want a martini.”
“Olive? Twist? Caperberry? Pencil shavings? Ceramic? Sage?”
“Surprise me,” Jules said, waggling her fingers goodbye at the server, and then leaned close to San when they left. “What’s a caperberry?”
“Big caper. You know that’s like, a twenty dollar martini minimum.”
“It’s the only thing we’re paying for.”
“We tip.”
“OK, OK, I know the point you’re really making.”
“And that is?”
“That you’re worth it,” San said, “and you are.”
She beamed at him, both hands on the mat. “It’s good to go out,” she said, and San made the gesture that he was reaching for her hand later. They’d touch when they got back to her place. There was no reason, even after dating what, four months? — to risk it extra in a place like this.
Most restaurants couldn’t afford customers. Not ones who ate in. The restrictions, as susceptible to fear as they were to science, changed so quickly that by the time you paid for the plastic dividers, the plastic dividers were illegal. The super pricey places, the upper echelon playgrounds, were the only ones tricky enough to make it. Colander didn’t take reservations, of course. Why would they? They had a distanced line outside that, on weekends, turned into a bidding war. The surer bet was Waiters, an app that had sprung up right quick. San didn’t drive anyone around anymore, with the windows open and the clear plastic shield rattling between the front and back seats. San didn’t wander the grocery aisle looking for the right hot sauce, texting the impatient customer who might lower the tip. This is what he did. He sat in a restaurant at 4:30 p.m. for three hours, and he did it with his girlfriend. This is how they made it.
The tough part about going out wasn’t meeting people, or talking to them, or even the sex, first onscreen and then, with proof of negativity, at long last in a bed. It was going out. If you could only afford cheap places, and the cheap places weren’t open, you signed up on Waiters and showed up early — squatted, was how no one was supposed to describe it — for a prize table.
Restaurants like Colander knew Waiters were holding tables, and they usually tossed them a few courses, snuck into the real customers’ bills. It was a sweetheart deal, perfect for sweethearts.
The martini arrived, and Jules toasted San. San sipped the cider, each bubble like a tiny little dumpling virus on his tongue. The problem was not how to have a love life during a pandemic.
The problem, and this was every problem in San Francisco, was how to do it when you weren’t rich.