Banjo Harris Plane
‘There is, perhaps, an element of truth in what you say, Toby. For indeed, one endowed with such a prodigious proboscis must be able to receive and process an enormous amount of whatever startling aromas that he seems to discover hidden within his glass. Many, many more than a mere mortal like you or I.’
‘He does seem particularly preoccupied with whatever is contained within.’
‘Perhaps he dropped something, a certain small something, into the glass and now he is looking for it so as to fish it out.’
‘Oh I hardly think so Julian, for look, look—his eyes remain closed for most of the time that he plunges headfirst into the goblet.’
‘Then perhaps he is praying into his glass, seeking enlightenment … rather like James the other evening, into the toilet, howling for salvation.’
‘Ahh … yes, but I feel that was due to James enlightening himself a little too much, whereas our lonely little friend over there, tucked into the corner, wrapped in the shadows as he is, could certainly use a touch more lightness in his life. Why I can hardly see his big brown eyes when he leans back into his seat like that.’
‘That is because he is not looking at you Toby. And small wonder in that shirt. I didn’t know mauve was back in fashion these days.’
‘Savile Row, darling. Some of us have discovered other colours in the universe apart from black …’
A black-suited waiter veers off his course in sharp response to the hasty gesturing from the two middle-aged gentlemen sitting on table twelve towards the back of the restaurant. Regular customers of the most painful kind, for whom the service and the food are rarely good enough or quick enough. A silent shudder quivers through him at the leering look on their faces, yet he fixes a smile and attempts to assist them with their latest dilemma.
‘Two more glasses of this pink fizzy nonsense. And while you’re at it, bring some balsamic to accompany this oil for my bread.’
Champagne and vinegar, one of those delightful combinations best left for those totally devoid of any tastebuds.
‘Certainly sir. My pleasure. I’ll be straight back.’
‘Do you suppose he truly has no friends in the world? Or that he has friends, but they despise him? Perhaps his breath is particularly odorous, or he is a total bore and speaks only of banal and trivial issues. Perhaps he is even more horrendous to look at than we can recognise from this distance and people cannot bear to stare at him for longer than a few minutes at a time. Then again, maybe he is a miser of the meanest kind, and cannot bear to spend any money on others, keeping it all for himself.’
‘Toby, you do go on. It is obvious to me that he is merely alone in the world. He is one of those unfortunate individuals who simply lack the social skills to communicate with others. More than likely he is nervous and lacks the confidence to interact and even spend time with other people. He probably wets himself just looking in the mirror.’
‘Then why does he present himself to the eyes of the public in such a way, where the very fact of him being alone is guaranteed to draw stares? Hmmm, answer me that, you all-knowing prat?’
‘A man’s got to eat, you know. And drink. And even dine sometimes. Perhaps he feels that being here, in this place with this food, is a necessary part of his life. God knows why I subject myself to your prattle every week. More champagne?’
Candlelight gently flickers off the cream walls and the shadows lengthen. The noise in the restaurant simmers down to a gentle murmur as most diners finish their coffee and tea and begin the trek back home. In one corner only is the tranquillity disturbed, as two middle-aged men grunt, giggle and curse at each other. Slightly red in the face, the younger of the two is beginning to slur the last word of each sentence. Their dinner has been forcefully repositioned around the plate and had perhaps a few mouthfuls taken here and there. Streaks of oil crisscross the tablecloth after one particularly animated hand gesture. Crumbs adorn the table like confetti. From the corners of the restaurant the waiters by turns glare, roll their eyes and pray.
As he drains the last of his espresso, with whiffs of caramel and chocolate bringing a smile to his face, he lifts his eyes and glances around the room. The four suits at the far end of the room are all buried in their brandy balloons. The younger couple tucked away in the booth are lost in each other’s eyes. As for the two men who seem determined to make themselves the stars of the show for the evening … well, they remain as they always are. God knows what pleasure they derive from any of it. Every week, without fail, they make the dining room their own. Were it not for the simple elegance and charm of the perfectly cooked food, he would have eschewed it in favour of something a lot closer to home. To dine here, however, was to be at peace, each mouthful a soothing balm to ease away the day’s troubles. Those two could never understand that surely. But then why bother to visit so regularly? He ponders this as he signs off on his account for the night, thanks his waiter and heads for the door. Even this curiosity, combined with their furtive glances and whispered gossiping, cannot impinge upon his mood. His night of solitude, his food and wine his only friend, will see him through until next week, when the whole act can be replayed in detail … to relax, be waited upon, observe and consume. To dine.