|
 |
Ludvic
Ludvic filled out his application with the resignation of someone who has performed this simple task 1,000 times, and to no avail. He handed it back to me, the handwriting neat and so tiny that I wondered if he had been an architect or accountant in one of his past "lives". Nah, this guy had been a waiter all his life. You could see it in the way he moved. A brief glance at the resume registered over twenty-five years at some of the best restaurants in the city. Flicking my eyes down the list I could see the rise and fall of his career. Two years at a classic spaghetti house, known for the sheer numbers that could churn through the doors and for the sadistic manager who'd been on the floor (more like a barstool) for over thirty years. Head waiter at a now defunt hotel near the waterfront. Five years of brutal service on a Dutch run cruise-line. Waiting tables and Maitre d' at grand ballrooms and grander restaurants now forgotten, a shadow of their former glory, bedraggled and musty. Ludvic himself was a bit shabby around the edges. He wore a crisply ironed tuxedo shirt, starched to give the illusion of newness, the frayed edges glued flat. Over that he wore a blue suit coat -- several generations of style behind the latest. Either he'd had it forever, or, considering that the sleeves were too long and hemmed with duct tape on the inside, probably a Goodwill purchase for the purpose of interviews only. I rolled through the usual questions and he answered quickly, as if he wanted to say "Look, I've done everything there is to do in the biz. I've got more experience than you have years. Either give me the job or let me get back to the unemployment office in peace." I smiled and sat back in my chair, and he relaxed a bit. At least I was paying attention. That's probably more than he usually got in this ultra-hip hood. He leaned forward. And his desperation oozed out of every pore. Maybe he had a chance this time... Restaurants in San Francisco are brutal interviews for an older, experienced waiter. Experience is overrun by youth, good looks, and a keen knowledge of the latest trends. The classically trained waiter is severely underappreciated and unlikely to find work in the upper echelon of restaurants. The elite prefer to be served by their own kind. Shallow, flippant, and ingratiating rather than be confronted with age and mortality. That wasn't the issue at the dive I was hiring for. The clientele was less discriminating. Still, the job was hard work and you had to be fast on your feet to do the turns. I told him I'd call him, knowing I never would. He knew it too. He shook my hand and left without a backward glance, blending into the crowded mass on the street as though he didn't exist. Something about that interview chewed away at my heart and wouldn't let go. Not that I hadn't rescued my share of puppies along the way. Pablo, Ricardo, and don't forget that little waif Emily, who could barely pick up a tray when she came in. But they were all young, desperate, and vulnerable. No threat to my superiority over them and making me even more superior dressed in my righteousness and the adoration they had of me as their savior. Ludvic though, he knew more, had seen more, than I ever had. No doubt he could teach me a thing or six. He would probably bring a lot to the dining room and might add some tricks to our collective bag. I fled from hiring him as if my life depended on it, and in that act he unknowingly broke up my secure little life and showed me what an ass I was. So. Do I hire him to re-establish my own security in my value as a human being and therefore my superiority? Or do I just shove it deep into the recesses of my insecurity closet and forget about it? Surely it would leak out and niggle at my conscience from time to time, but I could go on being superior and bestowing my patronage on those sure to be grateful... Nah. --Janet Fouts |
 |
|