I assure you, this post will not be a thousand words. I don't write haiku, though, so it's likely to get away from me.
I was watching Anthony Bourdain's new show and he was in San Francisco, Mr. P's hometown and a city that I love, and I had a little flashback to a breakfast joint that we visited a couple of years ago. It was one of those "secret" places that supposedly the locals all know, that gets known through word-of-mouth. One of those places that doesn't take reservations and you might have to wait. For a while.
As I recall, we didn't have to wait long because we got out of our Union Square hotel and up the street to the joint quite early. It was already crowded, though, and by the time we left there was indeed a queue. But what I chiefly remember about that visit was not the place itself, or the food, or the general experience. No, what I chiefly remember was our waiter.
This is not something that happens often. We get good service almost all the time because we are nice to the restaurant staff and we find the good places. (Restaurants with crappy service generally do not survive for long, nor do they get good reputations.) But it's usually about the food, or the wine, or the view.
So anyway, this waiter. What was it about this guy?
I don't as a rule take photos of people but I really wanted to do a portrait. I barely know how to take a good portrait, but the look of this guy suggested such a story that, witness this rambling nonsense, after all this time I haven't forgotten him. I didn't ask even though I had my camera, because we were out at breakfast and the place was busy and it might have seemed weird and I am not immune to "what will people think?".
His name was Nico and he looked Mediterranean; southern Italian, or Greek, possibly; Cypriot or Turkish, maybe; but he spoke with no accent so that's as far as I got. Dark hair, dark eyes. Beautiful eyes, with long lashes, and down-turning outer corners, and a nose like Isabella Rossellini's. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up a couple of turns, and I could see the edge of a tattoo showing below the cuff on his right arm. Not enough to see the design ... just another tantalizing bit of no-information. And he had the faintest suggestion of a bruise along the bone framing his left eye. As if he'd caught the edge of a punch a couple of nights ago.
Yes, he was a good waiter. He was charming and quick-witted and prompt. But he looked like someone we should have come across in the context of art or music or a sailboat or boxing, not pancakes; and it's that little fishhook of a story that caught me, and I still kind of regret not asking if I could take his picture.