Leaving Madeleine - Part 3
I got off the metro one stop after the Japanese girl and walked to Le Danton. No one greeted me so I found a table at the window facing the street. A young male server approached.
I ordered a café crème.
He asked me if I would like to see the menu.
“No,” I said. “Is André not working today?” I asked in French.
“Non,” he said. “Are you Evan?” he asked in English.
“Oui. C’est moi.”
“He left a letter for you. I will go to get it.” He held on to the menu. “French onion soup and a ham and cheese, that’s right?”
I smiled. “That’s right. But just the coffee for now.”
“Bon. I will bring you the coffee and the letter.”
I nodded and he went to do as he said.
I had been coming to Le Danton to write for almost a year now. Madeleine would chide me about going to the Latin Quarter. She’d tell me it was a cliché and no longer a place for artists, but for wannabes and tourists. I’d tell her that I didn’t care and I liked it anyway. I liked the people and the atmosphere and the busy streets. I liked the cafés and the shoe stores and the history, and I liked having so many cinemas close by in case I didn’t feel like working anymore and felt like seeing a movie. She liked the last part and would join me on occasion if she didn’t have a class. So every weekday around the same time I’d walk in to Le Danton and André would show me to a table facing the street. Outside when it was nice enough. Inside when it wasn’t. He’d bring me a café crème and an hour and a half later bring me my French onion soup. When the soup was finished he’d wait another thirty minutes and bring me ham and cheese on a baguette. Sometimes it wouldn’t be ham and cheese. Sometimes it would be a club or a Croque Madame. And sometimes it wouldn’t be French onion soup, it would be the soup of the day. But it was always André.
This new server was considerably younger. I had seen him around occasionally. Probably a student, working to pay for school or rent or some other living expense. Either way, this was not his chosen career and it showed. Not that he did a particularly bad job. He simply didn’t take any pride in his work.
André on the other hand had been serving since he was an adolescent. He knew the regular patrons by name and he made the tourists and first-timers feel like regulars. He kept his shirts starched, his pants pressed, and his apron clean. The hair remaining on his head was never out of place and he seldom seemed rushed or hurried by anyone or anything. He knew exactly how much conversation was warranted and when to bring the bill. It’s quite possible that André was the best waiter in all of Paris. At least that’s what I thought of him.
The young waiter brought the coffee with the letter. I sipped the former and opened the latter. Seven words were handwritten in English:
I refolded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope. Why write a letter? I thought. Did he think I’d stop coming? Did he value me that much as a customer? My tips were average. Or did he consider me a friend? I decided to think about it later. With the Japanese girl, the lack of André, and now this strange letter, there were too many distractions creeping into the day. I had to get some work done. I opened my notebook and tried to salvage what was left of my routine.
I ordered a café crème.
He asked me if I would like to see the menu.
“No,” I said. “Is André not working today?” I asked in French.
“Non,” he said. “Are you Evan?” he asked in English.
“Oui. C’est moi.”
“He left a letter for you. I will go to get it.” He held on to the menu. “French onion soup and a ham and cheese, that’s right?”
I smiled. “That’s right. But just the coffee for now.”
“Bon. I will bring you the coffee and the letter.”
I nodded and he went to do as he said.
I had been coming to Le Danton to write for almost a year now. Madeleine would chide me about going to the Latin Quarter. She’d tell me it was a cliché and no longer a place for artists, but for wannabes and tourists. I’d tell her that I didn’t care and I liked it anyway. I liked the people and the atmosphere and the busy streets. I liked the cafés and the shoe stores and the history, and I liked having so many cinemas close by in case I didn’t feel like working anymore and felt like seeing a movie. She liked the last part and would join me on occasion if she didn’t have a class. So every weekday around the same time I’d walk in to Le Danton and André would show me to a table facing the street. Outside when it was nice enough. Inside when it wasn’t. He’d bring me a café crème and an hour and a half later bring me my French onion soup. When the soup was finished he’d wait another thirty minutes and bring me ham and cheese on a baguette. Sometimes it wouldn’t be ham and cheese. Sometimes it would be a club or a Croque Madame. And sometimes it wouldn’t be French onion soup, it would be the soup of the day. But it was always André.
This new server was considerably younger. I had seen him around occasionally. Probably a student, working to pay for school or rent or some other living expense. Either way, this was not his chosen career and it showed. Not that he did a particularly bad job. He simply didn’t take any pride in his work.
André on the other hand had been serving since he was an adolescent. He knew the regular patrons by name and he made the tourists and first-timers feel like regulars. He kept his shirts starched, his pants pressed, and his apron clean. The hair remaining on his head was never out of place and he seldom seemed rushed or hurried by anyone or anything. He knew exactly how much conversation was warranted and when to bring the bill. It’s quite possible that André was the best waiter in all of Paris. At least that’s what I thought of him.
The young waiter brought the coffee with the letter. I sipped the former and opened the latter. Seven words were handwritten in English:
Dear Evan,
I will be back soon.
André Leroux
I will be back soon.
André Leroux
I refolded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope. Why write a letter? I thought. Did he think I’d stop coming? Did he value me that much as a customer? My tips were average. Or did he consider me a friend? I decided to think about it later. With the Japanese girl, the lack of André, and now this strange letter, there were too many distractions creeping into the day. I had to get some work done. I opened my notebook and tried to salvage what was left of my routine.
Comments
Post a Comment