Marty's Bon Mots (Selections found in: Glad You Asked)

“I’m fast.  Yes.  I’m on the ball!”

This is a quote from our waiter Saturday night at one of our local Chinese restaurants.  I suppose this can be filed under quirky characters we have encountered. 

We had a Chinese restaurant we had frequented over the years.  At first it was awful but we were later advised it improved substantially.  We returned and they were correct.  The economic downturn was not kind to it and they closed up shop. 

This reminds me of a saying comparing something pretty good to Chinese food.  “Chinese food is kind of like sex.  When it’s good, it’s really really good!  But when it’s bad … … it’s still pretty good.”

So we learned of a restaurant a short drive from us which was, and remains, quite satisfactory.  And so we arrived on Saturday evening as a treat to ourselves to celebrate both a trying week and our laziness.

Among the things we remember about this place is that the food is good and the prices are reasonable.   While it is never crowded, it is also never empty.  Among the things we forget is that it’s two traffic lights down the street, not one.  And also there’s this waiter there who is quite a character. 

I’m not sure if he owns it, or he’s a partner, or he’s a family friend, or he’s … well … a waiter, plain and simple. 

It’s not that he’s one of life’s unforgettable characters like Moondog, the blind six foot six Viking who stalked Greenwich Village in the sixties, or a barber my brother and I frequented when we were kids who terrified people with tales of UFOs victimizing us hapless earthlings. 

This gentleman is just sort of … well … a character. 

Remember that time in 80s when fashionably chic trendoids shaved one side of their head while allowing great locks on the other side to grow?  Apparently our waiter man is still caught up in that.  Only he’s bested our friends of days gone by.  Both sides of his head are shaved and the middle locks have grown long.

He wears boots.  Not just any boots, mind you.  Cowboy boots.  Pointy toed snake skin cowboy boots.  Pointy toed snake skin cowboy boots that he wears every day with no exception.   In all fairness here, I cannot say this will all accuracy because we do not frequent this particular establishment on either a daily or a weekly basis.  Suffice it to say, that my wife and I have seen him sporting these things every time we have appeared on the scene.    All pretense of finish has long since been removed from the boots.  I can only imagine the number of holes worn through on the soles.  As it turns out, I no longer have to lay awake at night worrying fretfully concerning the condition of the soles on the gentleman’s boots.  We paid a visit to the restaurant and he did, in fact display the same footwear with which he has been attached for these years.  However, there was one difference both of us spotted.  His heels and soles were replaced.  They were not replaced with anything that appeared even remotely as though they were to have complemented the rest of the gear.  As a matter of fact, these heels and soles were substantially wider than the width of the boot and appeared to have been carved out of a B F Goodrich surplus remnant discount store.  If you wanted, you could probably have rested a few nickels on the rubber extending from the bottom of the boots. 

These characteristics are, however, mere window dressing.  The facets of the gentlemen that portend to bolster this fellow into the annals of characterdom have less to do with his outward portrayl of himself than his mannerisms. 

Bear in mind now, neither my wife nor I are offended by his quirks, mannerisms or verbal expectorations.  In fact, we smile at each other after the fact in abject amusement. 

We feel that this man thinks he is caught within the whirlwind fast paced lane inhabited nearly exclusively by either mid town or downtown New York City Chinese restaurant/factories where there is not a minute to waste, least of all on lowly customers.  He seems to have completely obliterated the fact that he is serving suburban customers in a decidedly low key restaurant in an equally decidedly low key suburb. 

With this in mind, his service is fast paced and he approaches the table as though he were the cartoon roadrunner sans beep-beep.  As though let out of the chute in a rodeo, this bull charges the table laden with menus, tea cups, a tea pot, a bowl of crispy noodles and some sauce, turns heel and disappears.  No words are spoken as he slams down these accoutrements within our reach.  Within exactly three (count ‘em three) minutes he arrives again pen in right hand, order pad in left and inquires as to what we would care to drink.  Sometimes he writes it down.  Often times, he does not.  Regardless, his inquiry is couched not along the lines of ‘what would you care to drink before dinner’, so much as though he were on a timer.  It comes out as one word in as few syllables as possible.  “Wotchuwon!!”  We casually acknowledge his presence and advise that we are interested in water or soda or coffee.  No sooner do the sound waves generate from our faces than he impatiently turns heel, leaves dust and runs toward the kitchen in order to collect the charge to which he just gained intelligence.  Forty five seconds after our announcement was constructed, our drinks arrive and again his vocal fast forward makes gentle inquiry, albeit even faster than was previously alluded.  “Wotchuwon!!”   As we explained our desired repast of choice to him we saw him visibly redden with irresolute impatience.   The countdown started and it was now well past T minus 1 and counting.  He positively quaked at the prospect of delivering our order in record time to the kitchen staff.  Our delivery is clearly crowding his style and he makes it plain that we are but mindless anchors to his soaring jet ski.   Within a very short period he returns with our dishes.  Last Saturday, he made a mistake!  We ordered brown rice yet he beep beeped with white race.  Our attitude was decidedly ‘no-big-deal-but’ when we advised of this minor error he gave a stage grunt and exited white rice in tow only to return in less than a minute with two bowls of brown rice. 

We raised our eyebrows and commented, “That was fast.”  Sometimes I’m so clever I can hardly stand myself.  His immediate reply in broken English was, “I’m fast.  Yes.  I’m on the ball!”

The table next to us became filled with a young family and our hero waited on this table.  Their ordering was neither organized, rapid fire or even decided.  He left in disgust mid order. 

My wife asked for a container to take the remaining sesame chicken home, he returned a minute later with a small Styrofoam container and a plate holding a bunch of canned pineapple pieces, two wrapped fortune and the bill. 

No “thank you, come again please.”  No “have a nice day.”  Just the back silhouette of an emaciated Asian man with decrepit but resoled cowboy boots. 

Funny guy.