IT IS not merely ironic; no, it is insufferably absurd that I, a baritone of genius, should be waiting tables. Especially in this tourist trap, where they call me garçon, the Americans especially: they positively relish their pathetic French. I have at table five an obese couple, Rob and Roberta I call them, and next to them, at table three, four ugly ducklings with big Gaulish noses. They are taking their sweet time, these four. Very well, I'll be back. The couple has ordered les côtelettes de porc braisées à l'espagnole, mispronouncing every syllable. Intolerable. They might as well have scratched the wall with their fat fingernails. I'm convinced they suffer from some kind of speech disorder. Naturally, I understood not a word of their gobbledygook, so I switched to English and instructed them please to point to the number on the menu. This they managed to do, the fat freaks. They belong in a traveling show. Now back to les moches. Ladies, are you ready to order? No reply. As far as they're concerned, I could stand as I am, where I am, till I wilt. You have no idea, do you, you cretins, what I could be doing right now. I could be practicing my Kurwenal aria, Auf, auf! Ihr Frauen! I bought a pair of A. Testoni calfskin loafers, four hundred euros if you must know, for my audition at l'Opéra national, and I must confess: they are not very comfortable. Mesdames, I say, please. One of the four is crying; the others comfort her. She has bad acne, poor thing. What on earth is the matter, besides her complexion? Aha, il s'agit d'un homme. (Reader, I speak English; you should learn French.) I tap on their table to make my presence felt. Ladies, ladies, please. They continue to ignore me, the brutes. Well, what about this man? An American? Took off? Knocked her up I suspect before he took off; hence the acne. Women get acne when pregnant, I am told; it is hormonal. What's that? He hasn't called? Hasn't even e-mailed? In two weeks? Almost three? I've heard enough. I'll be back. Voici les côtelettes de porc braisées à l'espagnole, a double portion for Rob and a double portion for Roberta. Bon appétit. They order blew ta purr ay blew ta bang. I cannot conceive them; perhaps their fat mothers could but I cannot. I say, en anglais, I beg your pardon, sir? Putter and pread it is. Here it is and may you choke on it, you hippo. The ugly demoiselles are still oblivious to my existence, may they choke as well. Should she e-mail the man or call him? That is the question. Oh no, proposes another, just forget him. I'm beginning to suspect these are actresses, with pimple makeup and fake noses, rehearsing a bad drama. Enough. I slam my fist upon their table. Vous les salopes, vous allez commander ou merde? Vous me faites chier. Ah, they have noticed me. The pimply one orders rôti de porc à la bordelaise. Parfait. And her friends? Nothing, they merely blink. They're here to comfort, not to eat. Fine, I'll be back with her pig. The fat couple again, God blight them, what now? Rob is flapping his fat fingers. He's as red as a beet. What's the matter with him? His wife screeches: He's joking! Help! He's joking! I tell her please to keep her voice down; this is not America. Would you like some water, sir? He is not responding. Have some water, I repeat. Why is nobody paying any attention to me today? I might as well go home. I was not put on God's good earth, good reader, to wait tables. I have an audition this afternoon at l'Opéra national de Paris, for Tristan und Isolde if you must know. Wie, hör' ich das Licht? Die Leuchte, ha! Die Leuchte verlischt! Zu ihr, zu ihr! I am not going to waste my voice on a bunch of -- I feel a hand on my shoulder. It is none other than the weeping girl. Allow me, I am a doctor. A doctor? This one? A doctor with pimples? What will they think of next? I let her deal with Rob, who proceeds, after some abdominal thrusting, to cough up a bone, followed by the rest of his côtelettes de porc braisées à l'espagnole and an obscene quantity of bile: a frightful mess, some of it on my brand-new A. Testonis. Reader, you should be careful what you wish for. I snap my fingers and the busboy appears, a Peruvian: Pedro, who mops up the mess. Here at last is a man who knows how to listen.
