The cheating waiter is common to all countries, though in Italy and Belgium he flourishes, perhaps, more than elsewhere.But the British waiter, when detected, becomes surly--does not take it nicely.The foreign waiter is amiable about it--bears no malice.He is grieved, maybe, at your language, but that is because he is thinking of you--the possible effect of it upon your future.To try and stop you, he offers you another four sous.The story is told of a Frenchman who, not knowing the legal fare, adopted the plan of doling out pennies to a London cabman one at a time, continuing 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 out-stretched hand, the horse between the shafts long since dead, the cab chockfull of coppers, and yet no expression of satiety upon his face.
But the story would appear to have crossed the Channel, and to have commended itself to the foreign waiter--especially to the railway refreshment-room waiter.He doles out sous to the traveller, one at a time, with the air of a man who is giving away the savings of a lifetime.If, after five minutes or so, you still appear discontented he goes away quite suddenly.You think he has gone to open another chest of half-pence, but when a quarter of an hour has passed and he does not reappear, you inquire about him amongst the other waiters.
A gloom at once falls upon them.You have spoken of the very thing that has 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 chequered 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; sometimes it is.
[His Little Mistakes.]
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 distinctly bad 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 subscribing to a charity.
We looked at one another.I suppose I must have conveyed to him the impression of being discontented.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 it to the heap upon the table.
I suggested his taking a seat, as at this rate it seemed likely we should be doing business together for some time.I think he gathered I was not a fool.Hitherto 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 comprend!" He swept the whole nonsense back into his bag and gave me the right change.Islipped my arm through his and insisted upon the pleasure of his society, until I had examined each and every coin.He went away chuckling, 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 beginning and disillusion him;sweep aside his talk of '84 Perrier Jouet, followed by a '79 Chateau Lafite, and ask him, as man to man, if he can conscientiously recommend the Saint Julien at two-and-six.After that he settles down to his work and talks sense.
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, however, 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 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 appears to be saying the same thing:
"I think you have made a mistake.You are possibly confusing me with somebody else; I have not the honour of your acquaintance."[How to insult him.]
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 humiliation.
"I will send your waiter to you," he answers.His tone implies that there are waiters and waiters; some may not mind what class of person they serve: others, though poor, have their self-respect.It is clear to you now why your waiter is keeping away from you; the man is ashamed of being your waiter.He is watching, probably, for an opportunity to approach you when nobody is looking.The other waiter finds him for you.He was hiding behind a screen.
"Table forty-two wants you," the other tells him.The tone of voice adds:
"If you like to encourage this class of customer that is your business; but don't ask me to have anything to do with him."Even the waiter has his feelings.
