What kind of person would quip thus to a waiter: “Bring me the smallest check, please?”
A cheeky one; that’s me, in case you don’t know. I may have smirked, but I didn’t wink. I promise; I was sincere.
What kind of waiter would take overlong to return to our table with the check…as he endlessly reduce-copied the bill to a thumbnail size. (yes, this story is old enough to be set in a time when copy machines still topped back office desks).
A waiter on his last shift in a Calgary restaurant before a move to Seattle; that’s who.
A handsome curly-haired waiter who’d patiently served four mature women behaving giddily over the course of a two-hour meal…- Likely a thirty-something young man who’d grown up with a houseful of older sisters.
- a guy who was a terrific practical joker, one who intrigued my memory forever.
- A man who remained at our table as we laughed and laughed and laughed, long enough so that I actually paid the bill. (yes he gave me the Tiny Tim copy to keep and brought a credit card slip for me to sign).
I carry that teensy bill in my wallet still, though it’s burrowed behind my husband’s photo… Wouldn’t want him to get any false ideas about my loyalty and love.
I think we should book a trip to Seattle with a quest to dine in each restaurant in the city until we find the man. Wanna come along?
(photo by Karla Schmick)
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