“What brings you to New Orleans?” Enquired Ricky. My answers had been short and he was attempting to stack on more small talk. He could tell I needed breaking into. He told me his name like they do when they sit you down at restaurants or when you enter shops. (One nice thing I found about being in New Orleans). “My name is Ricky, I will be your server this evening,” he said in an almost monotonic way under his breath in his southern accent. As he carried on, I made out a squint of warmth filtering through his voice, as I was attending alone, dressed all in black. “If there is anything you need, you should sure let me know.”
He handed me the menu with his wrinkled, dry, shaky and overworked hands and I studied it. He could tell that I wasn’t going to blabber about the weather or unlock a discourse of un-functional conversations. Perhaps he saw that I really needed a proper chat. He was tall and lean, perhaps in his late 60s, his skin was matte, the youthful sheen had departed from his dark complexion, they no longer lingered on his epidermis. I imagined that he must have worked hard his whole life and now he is here in what looked like a grand and civilised dinning room, full of American tourists in sneakers and bum bags. I started to wonder why I had chosen this place to dine. Nothing on the menu called to me, especially not meat (in a meaty place). Perhaps I needed the high ceilings, space and a lack of loud music which was hard to come by in the deafening place that is The French Quarter.
“I went to my father’s funeral,” I said, the tears immediately flushed to my eye balls. It dripped in an instant down my freshly made up face onto the pages of the menu, precautioned by plastic coverings. “Oh man! No…” Said Ricky in shock at my revelation and punched down at the air, “Ma’am, I am so sorry,” he said with sincere sympathy and compassion. His whole body seemed to hunch down at me like he wanted to embrace me but thought it would have been quite inappropriate. “I am so SO sorry for your loss,” his true voice trembled, “I am so sorry!”
I sharply turned my head back to the menu, embarrassed to let him see more of my streaming tears and wobbly composure. He let me be a lone. Heritage tomato, crab and burrata salad is what I shall have, with a pork chop and broccolini. Decided. A French 75 cocktail.
I had once swift through New Orleans when I was a fresh skinned and boney twenty-one. I masqueraded as a gentle and quiet Asian. I loved the music blaring from every bar and restaurant, it reflected my need to hide within my mask as well as my need to scream out loud. Like a waif, I fostered anger, inner rage and fury at my father. I wanted to wage on my hostilities and declare my sorrows like a gluttonous Sergent on a war path. I did so. I moved on, with burnt skid marks and collisions.
Ricky placed a large plate of the salad in front of me along with a flute of died down, warm French 75. Half of the plate was filled with some kind of wilted, heavily drenched green leaves which looked like it had had a very strong oily massage. The unripe, flavourless and unevenly sliced beefy tomatoes sat next to a dollop of thick creamed leaden crab, who died only to be disguised. I tore the tough French bread roll and lathered it best I could with stiff white artificial butter. It reminded me of how pitiful I was to have everything there in front of me but in all the wrong way. I felt sorry for myself real bad and even worse when the pork chop(s) arrived.
“There are 2 pork chops!” I laughed with Ricky, I somehow wanted him to not feel so bad about serving a grieving daughter. “The menu says, ‘pork chop’ not ‘pork chops.’” Ricky rolled with amusement, “we want you to get your money’s worth,” he said, ”you go ahead and enjoy it, Miss.”
As I chewed on the cold, stale fat chop that had been sitting on the pass since I received the starter, I wondered why I had ordered it. When someone I love died, my body naturally told me to go vegetarian. I chewed and I cried, my subconscious was compelling me to think that I was chewing on my own father whom I had only just seen laid in his casket, cold, old, frail and dead. I kept telling myself to snap out of it, this chop is nearly $50, eat the darn chop. “How are the chops?” Said Ricky. “Good, thank you!” I replied.
After a long while, I completed the chop. “Please can you pack up the other chop?” I asked Ricky. He limped over with a box, “y’all have a good lunch tomorrow,” he said with a grin.
“I can’t eat this tomorrow, do you think someone would want this?”
“I think a lot of people would like to have this ma’am. There are lots of homeless people out there”
“Do you think you can give it to them?”
“Who me?”
“Would that be too much trouble?”
“Oh, ok, I can give it to someone.”
I sat and mulled over my fostered anger, inner rage and fury at my father which still burned a small flame inside. Ricky approached with a slate bearing a tart with a tiny chocolate banner saying, ‘Happy Birthday.’
“I don’t know if its your birthday today or not but let’s say it’s your birthday today,” his voice was full of wisdom and empathy. I was overwhelmed by his kindness. “It is in two weeks,” I croaked to him with a trembling smile and tears, like my father did when I was born, his firstborn. I could tell he so badly wanted to tap on my shoulder but he let me a lone to eat the sweet, (as in sugary), little tart. To distract myself, I tried to define the ingredients but could not say what it was made from apart from plenty of sugar and enjoyed the nine berries that stood stuck on icing- tak dotted around the corners of the slate. Three of sweetest blackberries I have ever tasted, the only three things I enjoyed from that meal. Perhaps a symbol that sour seeming things can also be sweet.
So well written
I love this Uyen. It made me cry. Ricky sounds like a legend