Kate Napper
My mind is ticking over. His clean-cut, fashion-savvy appearance suggests he’s not from around here. His highly polished, crocodile skin boots make him stand out from our other thong-wearing clientele. And why does he have a computer at the dinner table? My waiter’s instincts suggest journalist, perhaps food writer.
I offer the day’s specials and throw in some suggestive selling by praising the crayfish caught locally this morning. It’s a little over zealous of me, considering the crays are nearly 3 kg; even a sumo wrestler would struggle to finish one himself. My lone diner accepts the recommendation and then, further highlighting his appetite, orders oysters. Having polished off a local beer, he moves to the wine list where after a momentary glance his deep brown eyes look to me for another local recommendation. A white wine is my proposal and his eyes linger on me just long enough to say, ‘I’ll leave it up to you.’ I remove the menu as if to tidy his table, which he has cluttered with papers, phone and laptop. Paying him a little more attention than our average diner I fill his wine glass at the table, displaying the wine’s label as he drinks.
His order is given the once-over in the kitchen and eyebrows are raised at the realisation it’s for one. I pass my suspicions on to the kitchen staff and there is a rush to the small window in the kitchen door. I smile and leave the kitchen abuzz.
I equip my loner for the meal ahead, placing claw crackers, shell picker, finger bowl and oyster fork on the table. The utensils lie in a disorganised manner; there is no room for me to set them in the standard, parallel fashion.
Each visit to his table feels like an intrusion yet I’m too curious to feel guilty. I try to distract him from his work, to lure his eyes away from the computer screen so I can search them for answers. Instead his eyes remain focused on the screen. His props seem to be protecting him from the other happenings in the restaurant, mostly diners enjoying one another’s company.
The oysters served natural are ready instantaneously. He devours them almost as quickly as they arrive, shucking them whole into his mouth and barely chewing. His cutlery remains unused next to his plate. I return to retrieve his plate and he orders more wine. This time he would like something different but again it’s up to me. Relishing the trust he has in me, I am determined to please him. I have forgotten about the other diners in the restaurant; it’s like he has me under a spell.
While he is away at the bathroom, I top his water glass, hoping to sneak a look at the screen on his computer, but a screen saver stops me. I can’t help thinking that perhaps my inference is silly and that he’s just not used to flying solo at the dinner table. This is his attempt to hide any insecurity.
I turn to the other diners in the restaurant while his crayfish is prepared. Though my hands seem to be serving, my mind is not on the job. At every chance I steal a look his way, curious as to what he’s up to.
The crayfish is even bigger than I anticipated. I deliver it to his table and as expected stand there buckling under the weight of the platter as he tries to make room amidst the clutter. He seems satisfied although says little more than thanks. I leave him alone to eat.
He is now almost the last diner in the restaurant, which would give new meaning to the term ‘dining alone’. He is still picking away at his crustacean, tap, tap, tapping on the computer keys and every so often taking a sip of wine. The crayfish seems to have inspired him; his fingers float over the keyboard as if under a spell.
With all our other diners long gone I attempt to give our solo diner the hurry-on. I approach the table and offer to clear the plates, to which he obliges. ‘The crayfish,’ he says, ‘was much better than expected.’ I leave the table with his empty cray shell, certain it’s a review he’s writing.
I offer him dessert and his reply further confirms my thoughts. ‘Yes, I had better have dessert,’ he says. I get the impression this decision is based on obligation rather than desire. Again he leaves the decision of what up to me.
Only after coffee and half of the dessert does he seem defeated. When my solo diner appears at the counter to pay, the transaction is brief. We exchange pleasantries; I’m tempted to comment on his work but refrain.
To my surprise this is not my last encounter, for he returns wanting to know where he can get a drink. Intrigued, I direct him to the pub we frequent after work. ‘I’ll probably see you there when we finish up here.’ He leaves with the first smile I’ve seen all night.