French People
French people always figured out the best thing on the
menu. They ordered appetizers first and then they ordered
salads and soups and they ordered their meal and then they
had dessert. They didn’t ask me about fat. They weren’t
allergic to anything.
They came in late and by the time they got their meal we
were finished and waiting to go home. We had cashed
everyone else out and swept the floors. We had cleaned the
bathroom, refilled the sugars, the salts and peppers, and
set all the other tables for breakfast the next day. The
dishwashers sat at a table in the corner but they didn’t
mind waiting around. They were Mexican and they were
patient. The French people smoked and talked and just when
you thought they might leave, they all wanted espresso.
I wanted to sit down at their table. I wanted to be French
like them and go home with a French husband and have French
children and go on vacations and not sulk, the Americans
always sulked on their vacations, and I wanted to go to
restaurants and eat everything I wanted and not gain
weight.
My coworker told me she always imagined her customers
having sex, a thought that, quite frankly, had never
occurred to me. I didn’t imagine my customers having sex
but I did imagine being their friend, being one of them
instead of myself, being on vacation, instead of thinking
about salad dressing.