Table Eleven

Tony claims he has COVID, so I've got a double shift. Most nights have been pretty busy this month. People seem to be living it up while they can. The news is nasty, and getting worse. Most of my customers eat and drink too much, tip well and behave, though they get louder when the beverages take effect. I don't mind.

The manager, Dem, pulls me aside just as the dinner tide is receding. "Look," he stage whispers, "there are some serious customers at table eleven. Ordinarily, I'd put Tony on it, but Tony is out with that pretty idiot he's never going to marry, so you're up.

Class.

Everything you do, everything you say, that's what I want you to be thinking. Class. Sophistication. All things are as they should be, you know?" Tony is Dem's disappointing son. I knew he didn't actually have COVID. If I impress Dem tonight, Tony's shifts will slowly become my shifts. There will be an argument that he can tell his wife about, so she doesn't think he's sticking it to Tony or whatever, then he'll find something else for Tony to do.

I know my role.

The guys at table eleven look like they are used to being treated like serious customers. Smug, spoiled pricks. I know the routine, but man, is it hard to go through it with some people. They're not having a pleasant interaction with you. They are evaluating you. They think life is something you respond to with clicks, either of the symbol of satisfaction or the symbol of dissatisfaction.

I do not like them, but I need their money.

"Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Spiro. I will be your waiter."

The one that looks like Anderson Cooper after LASIK says, pretty aggressively out of the gate, "Why are you our waiter?"

Honestly, I've never heard that one before. Maybe they're not total pricks. Or maybe they're pricks of an entirely new, terrifying kind. Their operating system has been upgraded. Serious pricks.

"I'm sorry?"

He rolls his eyes at Shaggy, next to him. Shaggy grins. Cooper says, "Please do not apologize. I am sure that there are many good reasons why you are our waiter. Being a waiter makes you part of an august tradition. So, why did you join it?"

Uh, this is supposed to be the part where I feign interest in your allergies and special food needs, of which I am sure there are quite a few, that you are very specific and oddly agitated about.

You are not supposed to interrogate your waiter, you serious prick.

I guess it's a good question. Let's see where he takes this. I'm not optimistic, and I wonder if Shaggy can talk. He looks like this is part of an expensive bar crawl. Eyes that have forgotten what rest means.

"Well, I'm trying to pay for graduate school and the rest of my life. I have significant bills, and a friend of mine told me to apply and gave me a pretty sweet recommendation. I like it. My grandparents ran a little restaurant. It's in the family, you know?"

Cooper likes that answer quite a bit. He whispers something to Shaggy, and Shaggy has a good, hearty laugh. Then he surprises me by saying, "You'll have to forgive Herman. He's in communications. He's always looking for valuable information. You can call me Ari. We're grateful for your service."

He puts a plastic card on the table.

I have seen many such cards. I have only seen one other of that kind, of that color. It's like an albino gorilla spotted in a deli.

These are probably emergency level pricks. Tony didn't fail. He escaped. I kind of like the pretty idiot, if you want to know the truth. She's friendly and firm. He's with her, and I'm here.

Why am I a waiter?

"Oh, we're very grateful that you have chosen to include us in your evening! I'm happy to answer any questions you might have. Please feel free to have a look at your menus, whenever you feel curious. There are some exciting special items this evening!

Do either of you have allergies or other food sensitivities you would feel comfortable sharing with me?" I am throwing myself into this while trying to remain calm and charming. It's not easy, but you get better at it with practice. So far, they seem weird, but I don't dislike them as much as I expected to; I hope they don't spoil it. They are drowning their bread in olive oil.

They must know how to leave an emergency tip.

Shaggy says, "We're fine. Please bring some wine. Spice it. Ask someone, if you're not sure. If you have game prepared in an interesting way, bring us that. We'll see how that goes.

You must know what they do quite competently in the kitchen. Tell me." Herman is completely on his phone. You know how people are, when the phone blots out the world?

"The kalamarakia is very fresh and quite delicious. The mousakas and dolmades are prepared according to the manager's mother's recipe. She is very particular." I smile warmly. Shaggy nods.

"Bring some of each please, Spiro. We have both survived marathon meetings. We are hungry." He is not joking.

"May I ask what sort of meetings, Ari? I'll graduate soon, and I don't want to starve. Any hints?"

Herman wasn't as absorbed in his phone as I thought. "We're both coming out of retirement. Business was asleep and now it's always awake. He told you that I'm in communications. He does military intelligence, with some kinetics now and then. Invest in war, and robots. We'll text you when you should sell."

He's typing two different messages and watching something with one eye the whole time, I swear. I put their order into the POS, bow awkwardly and head for the kitchen. Thalassa will already have their order.

I want to see how she reacts to it.

Thalassa is Dem's niece. She went to culinary school, cooked her way from diners to cafes to the kind of restaurant old people trust and young people rave about. She's funny, and talking with her makes this job bearable. If I could escape with anyone I wished, it would be her.

She gives me a look when I enter the kitchen. She's coming down from the rush. The air feels like there was lots of yelling. Her sous chefs avoid my eyes and hers. They are doing lots of complicated things, quickly, and perfectly. They are careful to prevent their sweat from dripping into the food.

"Are they mentally challenged?" She laughs. She screams at the crew. She saves her most gentle voice for me.

"Whales. Dem was panicking. It's got to be perfect. Text your grandmother. You will dazzle them." One of the bus boys, Yiannis, passes me a bottle of sparkling. I open it and take a long drink. I give Yiannis some paper money. He looks like he's trying to figure out how to upload it to his phone.

She's texting her grandmother. I want to walk slowly around the counter, put my arm around her waist and tell her that her eyes are the color of hope.

I'm a coward, so I just take another drink.

"Cinnamon, clove--Dave, do we have fresh nutmeg? Barley? Jesus. What about the venison, how's that moving? Did anyone complain? Check the date." She's using the POS to get their wine back here.

"I'll get the wine," I say, without finishing my thought. Perspiration is doing fascinating things to her. I mustn't look. Not for long, anyway. I'm no creep.

Dion wasn't hired that long ago, but he acts like he's been running the bar forever. His braids are more complicated than his smile. He's the kind of guy everyone, and I do mean everyone, feels is vaguely interested in them, and they're waiting to find out for sure. Everyone, even the janitors and the harmlessly insane homeless woman who asks for help on the corner, feels this odd way about Dion. I've asked.

"We have six bottles of the Domaine Skouras Megas Oenos 2020. No one I know is worthy of a sip, so I hope your guests are worthy. Dem told me to treat them like kings, so here you go. You look worried. Would you like a drink?" He holds a bottle of white rum and slowly spins it in his hand, grinning. He takes orders as if they are dares. He's confusing, and not in a bad way. I smile and shake my head.

When I return to Thalassa with the wine, she tells me that her Tita--her grandmother--wants to get a look at the customers who submitted this order. She has told Thalassa to make starters that will startle them, so that her Papu can drive her to the restaurant. It is not far. Her illness forced her to surrender her kitchen, but she still considers it to be her home. Papu, from what I can gather, would have been happy to go back to the island where he was born when she retired. Thalassa's Tita would not permit that.

"I want to meet them," says Thalassa, once she has stopped texting with her grandmother in the kitchen that belongs to her, now. "Tita says she thinks she knows who they are, and that I should make them as happy as I possibly can. I'll send the starters, then you will introduce me, so I can get a review, right? She told me to water the wine a little. Weird." She smiles, and I wish she would never stop.

I take the watered, spiced wine--I think they have added barley; is that grated feta?--to table eleven. They are obviously impressed, and out of their minds. Who wants to make excellent wine chunky?

"Spiro, your hospitality is impressive!" Ari sounds perfectly sincere when he says this. I believe him in spite of myself.

"Who told you to serve our wine this way? Don't worry. We are not angry or disappointed. Quite the contrary. Please understand: you have a source whom I would be glad to know more about. Is the person who told you to serve the wine this way on the premises?" Herman is intense. I think it ought to be described as earnest, but I'm not entirely sure.

"Gentlemen, she was so impressed when our excellent chef, Thalassa, told her about your order that she is en route, and should be here shortly. I believe it will be impossible to prevent her from supervising your entire meal, except for the starters, which Thalassa is preparing now."

Herman rattles off a couple of texts. Ari takes a pull from his chunky wine. He looks elated. "Spiro, tell me more. When was your last fight?" His smile is a challenge.

"With a customer, in the parking lot, about a week ago. He said some things about Thalassa's cooking that I strongly disagreed with." I open my jacket, pull up my shirt and show him a large bruise on my side. I do not think twice about doing it until I've done it. In the dining room. With several, normal human beings in close range. I'm glad I did not let Dion make me a drink.

Ari inspects the bruise carefully and nods. I think it was a nod of respect. I have to keep them engaged until the starters arrive. "What about you?"

"I haven't seen any action for quite a while. I may be rusty. The last time was with some friends in the Middle East. I had mixed feelings, but it was a real battle." He dips a bit of bread in the wine. "You should be careful, fighting for Thalassa. Hold your horses, until things are clear."

"Well, the guy was an obvious moron, and he had no right to say what he said. I'm not proud of losing my temper, and I have no idea what to do in a fight, but I couldn't let him get away with it."

Ari makes a friendly fist and holds it out. I bump it. I feel like a giant, for just a second. Like I could pick up this entire restaurant and carry it on my shoulders.

"We are what we repeatedly do, Spiro. What are the starters?"

"You expressed interest in the mousakas and dolmades, and I believe Thalassa is going to improvise something to accompany them. She's an artist."

Herman chuckles a little when I say that. "You know, Spiro, we are quite liberal with superlatives like 'genius' and 'artist' lately, don't you think? Do you suppose that is a matter of inexperience, or poor judgment?"

Herman is revealing himself as an asshole. I wonder why?

"I think you're right, Herman," I say in a careful tone, "but let me assure you, I know what I am saying." The POS pings to let me know the starters are ready. "Your starters are ready, gentlemen. Please excuse me for a moment." Herman nods, in the same surprisingly encouraging way Ari did.

I circle to Dem on the way to the kitchen. "Thalassa tells me that your mother is on her way," I whisper to him, as I pass by. He looks like he's been kicked in the neck.

I discover that Thalassa's Tia has arrived, with an enormous bag of produce and a cooler. Apparently her Papu got a buck in the woods just a few days ago. The finest parts of the buck are in the cooler.

"Eleni," she says, holding out her thin hand, after I help her with what she was carrying. "They tell me you are a nice boy and that you know what you are doing. Is that so?" She touches me on the arm and looks at me for a long moment, sizing me up. I do not think she is just sizing me up as a waiter.

"I hope so, and it is a pleasure to meet you, Eleni. Who are these men?"

Eleni braces herself on the table where she used to make mouth watering food from scraps. "They have not visited us for a very long time, but we must show them that we are glad that they have come back, at last. I thought I would be dead by now. I'm glad I lived to help Thalassa show them what we can do." She winks. Her eyes are dark and warm, like strong espresso. Her breathing sounds a little funny.

Thalassa is working. Nothing matters to her but oil and spices and heat. I never take it personally, when she ignores me this way. I do not think anything can be done well, unless it occupies all of you like cooking occupies her.

I want to keep the starters for myself. They reveal secrets about Thalassa I would like to understand. There is plankton rice with aioli on the tray. Sea food is her specialty. She tells me that everything began in the sea. All of life.

They are pleased with the starters. "Gentlemen, Thalassa has asked to make your acquaintance. She found your order inspiring, and would be grateful for your thoughts about the starters. Would you be comfortable with that?"

Ari laughs. He is mopping up the plankton rice with another piece of bread. It deserves more respect. "Yes, by all means! We would be glad to meet the sorceress who cast this spell!" Herman nods. He asks for another bottle of wine. I assume that they want this one chunky style, as well. Yiannis is clearing the starter plates. He's trembling a bit. I pour the last of the wine. It sounds like I am pouring soup.

In the kitchen, Eleni is coaching Thalassa through the venison. She is not scolding her or shrieking, which I expected, given what Thalassa has told me, and how Dem is. She is speaking slowly and softly, encouraging when she is pleased and gentle when she offers corrections. Just watching them, and the respect and love that they are sharing with the buck that Papu hunted down, shines quietly.

When I can, I tell them that table eleven wants to meet them. Not just Thalassa. I think Eleni should come along. They look a bit stunned that I dared to distract them from the venison, but then their faces shine with delight. There is just no other way to put it.

When we arrive at the table, the way Thalassa and Eleni smell suddenly changes. Eleni smelled like medicine, and attempts to cover the smell of medicine, when she arrived. Thalassa smelled like her kitchen when we left it.

Now, they both open like irises in the rain. They look impossibly beautiful for a moment. It is not as if they have turned into different people. It is as if I see how astonishing they are, for the first time.

Yiannis drops his tray. I realize, and try to accept, that they have not done this for me. They have blossomed for the men at table eleven.

"Eleni, Thalassa," says Herman, softly, "you have honored us in ways we thought were forgotten. You have our thanks and praise."

"Yes, we are honored to meet you both!" Says Ari. He looks at both of them as if he has seen them many times before. Not in a condescending way, mind you. It seems like recognition, which it can't be, can it?

Eleni braces herself on the chair in front of her. "Why have you returned, now?"

"Time is short," says Ari, "but you understand that, don't you, Eleni?"

"I know," she says, "I am afraid that I will not live to hold Thalassa's children on my lap and talk with them."

"Do not be afraid," says Herman, "we may have returned in time."