Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

‘Oh, forget about those old-time Lotharios’ said the guest, making a humorously sour face upon tasting the sauce of lemon, sour cream and marjoram spooned from under the roast rabbit. ‘No use mulling over past loves. It’s always the present that counts, my friend, no matter how much some people like wallowing in the past. For instance, what would you do right now, if the restaurant’s owner decided to replace you with someone else, say his cousin? Every restaurant owner has a cousin in Budakeszi or one of the neighbouring villages, some cousin he is raising to be a waiter.’

Fridolin made no reply, for this possibility had not occurred to him before. He had always thought of the Clock as the place where he would grow old, with the billiard cue, the ebony grandfather clock, and the usual customers … The stranger seemed to guess the waiter’s thoughts even as he sucked clean each individual toothpick-thin rabbit bone. It is for a good reason that women who tend the kitchen fire all day love these little bones. A good housewife gathers the bones from her children’s plates on to her own, and notes with a benevolent smile which one of her children loves the bones as much as she does.

The waiter thought it was time to favour his guest with the next course.

According to the menu this should have been capon, larded with bacon, but in the world of smaller restaurants these larded capons usually appear on the menu only to enhance the reputation of the establishment. Capons like that — even if they are actually sizzling red in the oven pan, waiting to be basted by the cook with hot drippings from time to time — capons like that rarely make it to the guest in the dining room. Usually the cook will pilfer a piece or two: if she is a decent sort, she will be satisfied with the feet, neck or liver, possibly leaving the head as evidence of her honesty. Next the capon has to pass inspection by the innkeeper’s wife, who will at times also covet a choice titbit: she too has to live. And the proprietor himself will neglect the tap upon catching a whiff of roast capon wafting from his kitchen. So that the waiter came back with a piece of barbecued pork that he had just had grilled in the kitchen to compensate his fascinating guest for the bird that flew the coop, probably by way of the chimney.

‘Hmm,’ the guest brooded, ‘what in the devil’s name happened to that capon, it suddenly turned into pork? Well, never mind, I’ve seen greater wonders. But take note, my friend: a baked potato makes the best side for barbecued pork, and you don’t need to serve any bread, for the potato soaks up the gravy just as well. Some prefer home fries with onions, but not I. For in a restaurant one might think those potatoes have been standing for hours in the kitchen, and that is enough to discourage both the potato and the eater.’

But Fridolin, agitated by the prospect of losing his job at the Clock, no longer paid much attention to these comments about food. Flapping his napkin against his knee, he inquired with a certain amount of impatience: ‘But my good sir, please tell me, what is an old waiter to do? A waiter such as myself, who has nothing and no one in the world?’

The guest now looked up, as if he had quite forgotten what he said earlier. He was using his own pocketknife to carve into the complicated terrain of the pork barbecue — it was freshly grilled indeed. ‘My friend, you’re probably familiar with the tarot deck, for every waiter plays cards. Well, consider the eight of diamonds, if you want to know what to do with your life. It’s time to start a family,’ replied the guest. ‘As time goes by, waiters and guests grow old, but not the clever fellow who, say, owns the restaurant and lets the others do the ageing. You must be a proprietor, for it doesn’t matter how old the boss is — for him old age simply brings more respect.’

Fridolin let out a sigh of disappointment. ‘Sir, I was hoping you could offer some other remedy. How on earth could I become the proprietor when, for one thing, I have nobody and not a penny to my name.’

‘This pork demands to be washed down … maybe with a large pitcher of beer. Wouldn’t you agree, my friend?’ asked the guest, rummaging around his emptied plate for loose toothpicks, crusts of bread and other detritus that is left behind everywhere in the world, no matter how neat, cleanly and orderly you try to be. ‘So bring me a nice big pitcher of beer, my good man,’ he repeated with a smack of the lips and a click of the tongue.

The waiter brought the requested beverage with bad grace, rather dispirited because he suspected the strange customer was making fun of his helplessness. It was a waste of time to spoil one’s guests; better to just place their portions in front of them and move on, for customers are a thankless lot once their appetites have been sated. They feel entitled to some free entertainment once their bellies are full.

But Fridolin was unable to leave this table because the ghostly howls, although somewhat diminished, still rose around him on all sides, so he had to look on (although without any pleasure) as his guest wiped the rim of the pitcher with his napkin, rotated it so that the handle faced him, whereupon, after brief contemplation, he raised it to his lips and, staring at the ceiling, began to drain the contents in slow gulps as if to prolong the enjoyment. In spite of this unhurried pace he had drained about three-quarters of the pitcher before he put it down, deeply satisfied.

‘It seems to me we’ve had a sufficiency of roasts,’ announced the guest. ‘The way I see it, the duck took the prize, the rest played second fiddle to that plump beauty queen — a duck, even if it is a drake, should always be considered feminine in gender. For only a woman can pitter and patter and waddle and wallow in puddles as comfortably as a duck.’

At the moment Fridolin, preoccupied with thoughts of his sad fate, could not muster much enthusiasm for ducks. In his mind’s eye he could see himself as an old, unemployed waiter walking the streets, stealthily hugging the walls, shaving only once a week, and peeking over the fence of garden restaurants to see if they needed his services, only to find odd jobs here and there as extra help at Easter and Pentecost, when in his unhappiness he would drink up all the remnants of beer and wine and seltzer to muster enough energy for going home. The devil himself must have steered this weird trencherman his way to engender such melancholy thoughts. The best thing was not to think any more, to rest one’s brain and feet and await tomorrow’s disasters with equanimity.

The customer had yet to unbutton the lowermost button on his vest, and now cast an expectant look at Fridolin. ‘And what about some cheese, my good friend? A piece of cheese is a must at the conclusion of lunch, even if some people believe that cheese is for dinnertime. God only knows why they think that. I certainly don’t ,’ concluded the guest.

Fridolin came back with the desired comestible, but by now he began to have deep misgivings about this customer who refused to be sated. This one surely deserved to be called a glutton. Then again, possibly he was consuming so much because he had no intention to pay the bill of fare and was only waiting for the right moment to slip away through the door marked ‘Exit’ for the benefit of honest, paying customers. But this one showed no sign of ever intending to use that ‘Exit’, and now it seemed that he was in a conversational mood at last.

‘My profession compels me to seek out cheerful occasions that make me forget the nature of my activities,’ the guest now announced and Fridolin, formerly a waiter at grand cafés, smiled cannily deep down inside. He had known all along that sooner or later his guest would turn talkative, if you gave him a taste of the gruff treatment. Most customers preferred an amicable footing with the waiter who serves them. Baleful looks from one’s waiter were not conducive to good digestion.