Bar Jacques
Observations from a sunny terrace in June
The man who serves us has mismatched trainers: one red, one grey. His long socks, bunched at the ankles, hint at holes that free a toe or maybe a whole heel. He seems affronted by our presence, though I suspect his offence is not reserved for us foreigners, but for every conard who has chosen to fill his restaurant today.
The music is loud, and live, the nectar that draws the swarms of thirsty marketgoers to his leafy terrace this busy Friday. He winces with every upbeat.
When we both order white coffees, he seems pained to point out “la méme?”. I wonder what order might have saved him his discomfort – a water? A whisky?
He moves with a clumsy grace as he weaves his practiced way through tables and past elbows. I wonder if the trainers aid or hinder his progress.
His accent, when he delivers our order, is unapologetic. My unaccustomed ear thinks he is asking us to pass judgement on the coffees. We take so long to understand his request – to pay – that he's off, clearing the next table and huffing his frustration. We have no idea how much is our bill so we thrust a note in his direction when he sweeps past next. The change is delivered with barely a break in his stride.
The band has stopped playing and the singer makes his way round the tables charming tips from the merry customers. The coins jangle as they land in his upturned hat – sun-bleached and frayed at the edges. The waiter – jangled and frayed – seems insulted by the intrusion. He takes the long way round back to the safety of the restaurant's dark interior.
And as the band strikes up again, he vanishes, he and his trainers – one red, one grey – swallowed up by the darkness to the opening strains of the Mull of Kintyre.
Music on audio from #Uppbeat: https://uppbeat.io/t/fe77a/vacation-collective
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