The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 7, 1904, Page 7

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. E slowest waiter 1 know 1s the British railway retresh- nt roont waiter. His very breathing, regular, harmo- s as it is with all the better attributes of a well-pre- -d grandfather’s clock, conveys suggestion of dignity nd peace. He is a hugs, There em- an atmosphere of *Lotusland. 1 becomes an _oasis of repose amid the turmoil of All things conspiré to aid hir the side like corpses in a morgue, each one de- wder its white muslin shroud, whispering of death lish of dead flies, thoughtfully placed in the cen- he framed advertisements, extolling the virtues s and stouts, of weird champagnes, emanating from chateaux, situate—if one may judge irom the ii- midst of desert lands; the sleep-inviting buzz of of the place steals over you. Your idea on a r of an hour to spare, was a cutlet and a et. In the face of the refreshment reom waiter the rs frivolous, not to say un-English. You order cold f and pickles, with a pint of bitter in a tankard. To win the sh waiter’s approval you must always order beer in a tankard. Dritish waiter, in his ideas, is medieval. There is a Shakes- pearean touch about the tankard. A soapy potato will, of course, be added. Afterward a ton of cheese and a basin of rabbits’ food floating in water (the British salad) will be placed = before you. You will work steadily through the whole, anticipating the som- nolence that will subsequently fall upon you with a certain mount of satisfaction. It will serve to dispel the last lingering regret at the reflection that you will miss your appointment and r thereby serious inconvenience, if not positive loss. These H“H‘!;Zs are of the world—the noisy, tiresome world you have left without. To the English traveler the foreign waiter, in the earlier impressive person. he otherwise un- ancient notion appe WIIH A CHERRY LAV, “Iorrsrmvm corarrzzo /7 2 stages of his career, is a burden and a trial. When he is com- plete—when he really can talk Znglish—I rejoice in him. When I object to him is when his English is worse than my Erench or German, and when he will, for his non-educational purposes, in- sist, nevertheless, that the conversation shall be entirely in English. I would rather he came to me some other time. I would so much rather make it after dinner—or say half an hour next morning. I hate giving lessons during meal times. Besides, to a man with feeble digestion this sort of thing can lead to trouble. One waiter I met at a hotel in Dijon knew very little English—about as much as a poll parrot. The moment I entered the salle a manger he started to his feet. “Ah! You E sh!” he cried. “Well, what about us?” I answered. It was during the period of the Boer war. I took it he was about to denounce the English nation generally. I was looking for something to throw at him. “You English—you Englishman, yes?” he repeated, and then 1 understood he was merely intending a question. 1 owned up that I was, and acciised him of being a Frenchman. He admitted it. Introductions, as it were, thus over, I thought I would order dinner. I ordered it in French. I am not bragging of my French; I never wanted to learn French. Even as a boy it was more the idea of others than of myself. I have learnt as little as possible; but [ have learnt enough to live in places where they can’t (or won't) talk -any- thing else. Left to myself I could have enjoyed a very satisfac- tory dinner. I was tired with a long day's journey, and hungry. They cook well at this hotel; I had been looking forward to my dinner for hours and hours. I had sat down in my imagination to a consomme bisque, sole au gratin, a poulet saute and an omelette au fromage. It is wrong to let ome's mind dwell upon carnal delights, I see that now. At the time I was mad about it. The fool would not even listen to me. He had got it into his garlic- sodden brain that all Englishmen live on beef ‘and nothing but beef. He swept aside all my suggestions as though they had been the prattlings of a foolish child. “You haf nice biftek. Not at all done. Yes?’ “No, I don’t,” I answered. “I don’t want what the cook of a provincial French hotel calls a biftek. I want some- thing to eat. I want——" Apparently he understood neither English nor French. “Yes, yes,” he continued, cheerfully, pottitoes.” “With what?” I said. I thought for the mon get to it. “Pottito,” he repeate d; “boil pottito. Ye hell.” 1 felt like telling him to go there. [ suppose “pale ale.” It took me about five minutes to get th out of his head. By the time I had done it I did not ¢ had for dinner. I took pot-du-jour and veal. He ac own initiative, a thing that looked like a poultic the taste of it. He explained it was “plum had made it himself. This fellow is typical; you meet him ev where abroad. He translates your bill into English for you, calls ten centimes a penny, calculates twelve francs to the pound and presses a handful of sous affectionately upon you as change for a napoleon. The cheating waiter is common to all countries, though in Italy and Belgium‘he flourishes, p erhaps, more than elsewhere. But the British waiter, when he is detected, becomes surly—does not take it nicely. The foreign waiter is amiable about it—bears no malice wiatever. He is grieved, may be, at.your language, but that is because he is thinking of y ou—the possible effect of it your future. To try and stop you he offers you another 1 sous. The story is told of a Fren chman who, not knowing the le- gal fare, adopted the plan of doling out pennies tq a London cab- man one at a_time until the man looked satisfied. Myself I doubt the story. From what I know of the London cabman I can see him leaning down still, with outstretched hand, the horse between the shafts long since dead, the cab chock full of coppers, and no expression of.satiety upon that cabman’s face. But the story would appear to have crossed the channel, and to have commend- ed itself to the foreign waiter—especially to the railway refresh- ment waiter. He doles out centimes to the traveler, one at a tim with-the air of a man who is giving away the savings of a lifet If, after five minutes or so, you still gppear discontented, he goes away quite suddenly. You think he has gone to open anotl chest of halipence, but when a quarter of an hour has passed anc he does not reappear you inquire about him among the other waiters. A gloom at once falls upon them. You have spoken of the very thing that had been troubling them. He used to be a waiter here once—one might almost say until quite recently. As to what has become of him, ah! there you have them. If, in the course of their checkered career, they ever come across him they will mention to him that you are waiting for him. Meanwhile a stentorian voiced official is shouting that your train is on the point of leaving. You console yourself with ‘the reflection that it might have been more. It always might have been more times it is. F A waiter at the Gare du Nord in Brussels, on ‘one occasion pressed upon me a five-franc piece, a small Turkish coin the value of which was unknown to me, and remains so to this day, a dis- tinctly had two francs and from a quarter of a pound-to six ounces of centimes, as change for a twenty-franc note, after deducting the price of a cup of coffee. He put it down with the air of one sub- scribing to a charity. We looked, at one another. I suppose I must have conveyed to him the impression of being discon- tented. He drew a purse from his pocket.. The action suggested that, for the purpose of satisfying my inordinate demands, he would be compelled to draw upon his private resources; but it did not move me. Abstracting reluctantly a fifty-centime piece he added to it the heap upon the table. I'suggested his taking a seat, as at this rate it seemed likely we: should be doing business to- gether for some time. I think he gathered I was not a fool. Hith- erto he had been judging, I suppose, purely from appearances. But he was not in the least offended. “Ah,” he cried, with a cheery laugh, “Monsieur comprehend!” He swept the whole non- sense back into his bag and gave me the right change. I slipped my arm through his and insisted upon the pleasure of his society until I had examined each and every coin. He went away chuck- ling and told another waiter all about’ it. They both of them bowed to me as I went out and wished me a pleasant journey. I left them still chuckling. A British waiter would have been sulky all the afternoon. The waiter who insists upon mistaking you for < the heir of all the Rothschilds used to cost me dear when I was younger. I find the best plan is to take him in hand at the be- ginning and disillusion him. He sighs when you sweep aside his talk of '84 Perrier Jouet, followed by '79 Chateau Lafite, and ask him if, as man to man, he can conscientiously recommend the Saint Julien at two and six. But the fault is not yours. Your aristocratic bearing has deceived him. You are not to be blamed for possessing an aristocratic bearing. The fatherly waiter is sometimes a comfort. You feel that he knows best. Your instinct is to address him as “Uncle.” But you remember yourself in time. When you are dining a lady and wish to appear important he is apt'to be in the way. It seems, somehow, to be his dinner. You have a sense almost of being de trop. The ascetic waiter is a distinct damper. He is an intel- lectual looking man. At the bottom of my heart I agree with him. There is, when you come to think of it, something very gross, very animal, in these prolonged gorges of food and drink. Why don’t we live plainer and think higher? But he is out of place in a restaurant. The greatest insult you can offer a waiter is to mistake him for your waiter. You think he is your waiter—there is the bald head, the black side whiskers, the Roman nose. But your waiter had blue eyes, this man soft hazel. You had forgotten to notice the eyes. You bar his progress and ask him for the red pepper. The haughty contempt with which he regards you is painful to bear. It is as if you had insulted a lady. He appear: to be say- ing the same thing: “I think you have made a mistake; you are possibly confusing me with somebody else. I have not the honor of your acquaintance.” I do not wish it to be understood that I am in the habit of insulting ladies, but occasionally I have made an innocent mistake, and have met with some such response. The wrong waiter conveys to me precisely the same feeling of humili- ation. “I will send your waiter to you,” he answers. His tone im- plies that there are waiters and waiters; some may not mind what class ‘of person they serve, othets, though poor, ‘have their self-re- spect. It is clear to you now why your waiter is keeping away from you; the man is ashamed of being your waiter. He is watch- ing probably for an opportunity to approach you when nobody is looking. The other waitgr finds him for you. He was hiding be- hind a screen. “Table forty-two wants you,” the other waiter tells him. The tone of voice adds, “If you like to encourage thiis class of customer, that is your business, but don’t ask me to have anything to do with him, that’s all!” Even the waiter has his feelings. (Coeyrighted 1904 by Central News and Press Exchange.) some-