THE RAINBOW SNAPPER

 

     The waitress, in the small restaurant in South Melbourne, was looking  at me  askance.  She was one of those buxom self-assured women, who prefer to  be called  girls and who want you to believe they were going to remain  eternally  youngish.  She had rattled their "specials" down as soon as I was seated  and, coaxingly,  mentioned that the snapper and the rainbow trout were real  fresh. Although I  was  the first customer she was  now  standing  there  restlessly, overtly  resenting  that,  instead of ordering one of  these  dishes,  I  had proceeded with a conscientious perusal of the menu.  "A slow operator" – was written  all over her face and the assessment, I suspected,  was not  confined to my standing as a patron of the establishment.

 

"I'll have a rainbow snapper" - I said benignly.

 

"Any starter" – she said mechanically with her  smile returning –  and then the meaning of my answer hit her.

 

     She  pondered  for  a moment, concluding I  must  have  confused  things. "Foreigner," she was musing. Had she been trying to make a guess about my background?  For the moment, in any event, such contemplation was far  removed from  her  thoughts.  She was deciding how to  handle  an  awkward  situation. Finally,  with the expression of a schoolmistress humouring a dumb child,  she said gingerly but somewhat patronisingly: "You want a rainbow trout?" and then quickly: "Any starter?"

 

"Soup  of the day and a rainbow snapper."  I said firmly. You  simply  cannot let these strong willed women have their way without putting up a struggle!

 

"But  we don't have rainbow snapper; only rainbow trout. Rainbow snapper – no such thing." She was now perplexed and turning plainly hostile.

 

"But I want a rainbow snapper!"

 

            We kept glaring at one another. Impatience and chagrin were now  spoiling her quite pretty face. I suspected that this was, when needed, the  expression she  used  to spur dithering boyfriends into doing the right  thing.  After  a moment  of silence she made her last attempt. Pushing the menu right under  my nose she explained with deliberate precision: "Look,  here  it  says  `Rainbow trout' and here –  you  see –   `Snapper',  no `Rainbow'. You see?" I nodded, giving her an ingratiating twinkle.

 

"Well," she went on victoriously, pointing out the appropriate line in the menu "You want this, or" – moving her finger dextrously to the snapper –  "that."

 

It was a good try, but she had been too slow. I took the menu, pointed at  the word `Rainbow' and explained: "I want this" now moving my finger to the next line "with that. Alright?"

 

            For  a  moment   I thought she was going to thump me, as  if  I  were  a naughty boy in a special type of establishment. But here in the restaurant she had to act like a lady. Without a further word she fled into the kitchen.  She was too upset to even wriggle her bottom.

 

            I looked with appreciation at the decor of the cosy restaurant. Although it  had  remained  soothingly empty, the place did  not  look  deserted.  Some Aquarelles on the main wall and a few pot plants gave this little ground-floor shop, which used to be a milliner’s establishment, a welcoming  atmosphere. It seemed a  pity they were so inarticulate with their dishes. To my surprise I started to  miss the waitress. It finally dawned on me that she was attractive.

 

            The  door of the kitchen opened and the chef was coming straight to  me. In  spite of his troubled face, he looked the role. A white hat and  sparkling uniform covered his enormous bulk. He looked at me menacingly: "What is the trouble?"

"What trouble?"

"With the order. We only serve what is on the menu."

 

"I  asked  for a rainbow snapper," I said genially. Fighting him  would  have been foolish. He had the bearing of a Viking warrior.

 

            To  my surprise, he became gentle. A brotherly look came over his  face; the smouldering irritation left his eyes and he tried to smooth matters over.

 

"Trout  is river fish. You call it a rainbow trout because of the stripes  you see  through  the clear water. Snapper is a sea fish; so no  reflection –  no rainbow."

 

     He  kept watching me intently to see my reaction. I was now tired of  the farce.

 

"Oh,  all right. Rainbow trout then,"  I said, mournfully. Must we  lose  all our  dreams?  The  chef was touched by my deflated  demeanour.  His  expression became  abstract;  he  was  musing to himself  in  undertone.  Then  his  face brightened.

"Look, you really want a snapper cooked like a rainbow trout?"

"Precisely!"

"Alright, I'll try but it'll taste awful. Snapper is better fried; not  grilled with almonds. Flesh is too thick. I'll do my best."

 

            He  walked back to the kitchen with the satisfied expression of  one  who had  solved  a hitherto unintelligible  mystery; like  Darwin  describing  the missing  link;  or  Columbus  when he sighted America.  I  heard  him  talking triumphantly with the waitress. The word `eccentric' was repeated a number  of times.

 

            The  door  of the kitchen opened an the waitress staged her  return.  The smile,  now welcoming warm and, I thought,  alluring, was back. I noticed  she had put on a new layer of make-up. It was clear from her belaboured attempt at light heartedness that she felt the need of regaining her lost authority:

"So you wanted a Snapper cooked like a trout? Why didn't you say so? Ah?"

 

            She stopped for a moment, looking at me apprehensively. Then she  resumed her courage: "What will you have to drink?"

 

     Another  skirmish seemed undesirable. So, I asked for dry white wine  and, to expiate my sins, asked her to have a glass with me. This put me back on the list of gents! She joined me, beaming broadly, and –  forgetting the old  maxim that  curiosity killed the cat –  wanted to know all about me.  Predictably,  I started  to  like  her; how could I possibly help it when she  chose  such  an interesting topic for her conversation. Also, she was sipping her drink like a lady.   The  impression of vulgarity disappeared when she sat relaxed  in  the chair opposite me, cutely crossing her legs.

    

            The chef reappeared from the kitchen. He wore the expression of a man who had entered the gates of El Dorado.

"Your rainbow   snapper," he gloated "it's not half bad. Quite a dish. I  put in a bit of garlic; very French.  Salad or vegies?"

 

            It looked a beautiful dish. The waitress, now back to her duties,  placed it  proudly  in  front of me. You could have thought it was the  dish  of  the house!    

 

            The  entrance  door opened and a tall young man, in jeans and  a  leather jacket, came in. He gave the waitress, who was looking exceedingly  attractive after  two  glasses of Barossa Mosel,  an eager glance. I had  the  impression that  he had come to the joint to have the chance of staring at  her. It  was  quite  clear that she recognised him but seemed  somewhat  less  than enthusiastic at his appearance. Was he another slow operator?

 

"Any special tonight?"

"We have a rainbow snapper," she announced nonchalantly.

"A rainbow snapper?"

"New  idea  of  our  chef,"  she  explained  pointedly  favouring  me  with   a conspiratorial glance "Like that gentleman is having over there."

 

     He  gave  way graciously and ordered the dish. But he was looking  at  me suspiciously  from  the corner of his eye. I buried my head in  the  dish  and tried to look neutral. I was now regretting the entire business. A trout would have been nicer when cooked in this way.

 

            The waitress went to place the order. With the airs of one who intends to get to the bottom of things, the newly arrived patron turned to me: "They  always  have new things in this place. Wish they would stick  to  their menu."

"You don't have to order a dish you don't fancy."

"But she keeps insisting; very pushy she is, Lotti, ... about the menu I mean. She is a nice girl, if you know what I mean, very popular."

 

            It  seemed  best  to avoid unasked questions. The safest  thing  in  a restaurant is to discuss the food.

            "Look,  you  don't  have to come back if you don't like  what  they  cook?"  I pointed out, knowing full well that we were at cross purposes.

"But  it is only the food I don't like," he said lamely.

 

            It  seemed unwise to point out that in a restaurant the quality  of  the fare was of some significance. He was still trying to bring the waitress' name up in the conversation,  when she returned and, somewhat ungraciously,  placed one  glass  of wine in front of him and a second at the opposite side  of  the table. She was about to sit down when the door opened again and an aeging couple came in.

 

            ^The old  gentleman was dressed up too neatly. His ruddy face  and  rough hands did not match his pressed suit and discreet silk tie. His wife looked an old fashioned  matron of a lower middle-class background.  The  waitress,  who welcomed  them like regulars,   helped both of them, with a maternal  air,  to remove their coats.

 

"Any specials?" asked the husband when she placed the menu in front  of them.  I suspected that his eyesight was too poor to read the tightly  printed bill of fare; but he had remained too proud to wear special purpose glasses.

 

"I  want  my  pate and carpet bag steak,"  said  the  old  lady  plaintively, pronouncing  pate as patio.

"We  have a rainbow snapper,"  said the waitress warmly, talking  familiarly to the husband.

"Is  it good?"  The old gentleman did not bat an eyelid and seemed  to  accept the rainbow snapper as a matter of course. His wife was equally unbridled.

"I don't want no rainbow schlapper. Pate and steak,"  she reiterated angrily. I could not help beaming at her; I like people who know their own mind.

"Why  not try the rainbow snapper?" asked the waitress. "It is a  new  dish; straight from a chef in London. Very good; cook recommends it."

"Oh, all right then," said the old gentleman, placing his own order and looking placidly  at  his wife.

 

            She  was still rebelling, bent on having her way. But even as she  spoke the fire went out of her eyes. Years of submission to her husband's  authority and whims got the better of her.

"If you say so, dear," she said forlornly.

 

            For  a moment he looked disconcerted. Then, with an even broader  accent, manifesting his rural background, he said to the waitress: "And we'll have a good bottle of Champagne; the one my wife likes."

 

            Both women beamed at him. Obviously, his peasant intuition had aided  him to  find a compromise. Everyone's honour was intact. “A new Solomon,” I  thought to myself.

 

            The  waitress returned in no time with three plates of  rainbow  snapper. Obviously,  the chef, who must have been an enthusiast for  innovations,   was concocting the new dish safe in the knowledge that it would be fostered on his patrons. His surmise was well founded; a few new arrivals, most of  them regulars, submissively ordered the new dish of the house.

 

            The  old  gentleman and his wife were busy with their knives  and  forks. Both of them would have been out of place in the Menzies Rialto. The young man in  the  jeans tackled his dish gingerly, initially with a  smiling  face  but later on with a suppressed  grimace.

"You like it?”  asked the waitress, standing very close to him and looking  at him coaxingly.

 

            He  took  yet another mouthful and then confirmed his  approval  with  a forced  grin.  The waitress sank into the chair placed opposite his  and  they started to snicker. After a few minutes she left. I kept watching him closely; his face was alight with happiness.

 

"You do seem to enjoy the dish,"  I could not resist saying.

"Excellent,  excellent,"  he said, without looking at his  plate  and  fumbling excitedly with the cutlery,  "first time I dare ask Lotti out."

 

"The  dish  must be an aphrodisiac," I said trying to keep irony  out  of  my voice.

"An  aphrodisiac?" he asked hesitatingly, trying to discern the meaning of  the foreign word.

 

"You  know, a dish or medicine that gives you courage; makes you feel big,"  I explained, thinking to myself that licence was a poetic privilege.

"Oh,"  he  said, dubiously, uncertain whether I was serious or  jocular.  Then, with  an  air of confidence: "Lotti is a nice girl; a lot of blokes  take  her out. But for me, she's special!"

 

            The  old  gentleman snorted. I looked at him with surprise. Had  he  been eavesdropping?  But  he  seemed engrossed in a  conversation  with  his  wife. Looking  critically at the rainbow snapper, he was filling both their  glasses with  the  bubbly  yellowish  liquid.  I  could  hear  the  wife,  whining  in undertone: "Should  have  stuck  to my pate and steak." Then,  looking  at  me  ominously through half closed eyes, she said quite loudly: "You never know what these foreigners choifs are getting up to."

 

             It seemed pointless to remark that the chef was an Australian born and bred and that,  in  any  event, pate was also a foreign dish.  Suddenly,  and  for  no apparent reason I felt dispirited and out of place. The sensation  took me  by surprise.   With  Pat – my wife – happily away in Singapore for  one  of  her spells,  what could be nicer than a light hearted evening in this cosy  though somewhat pretentious restaurant? Did it really matter that I was ten  thousand kilometres away from my original home, Vienna?

 

            I knew that the sensible thing was to remain seated for some time.   But I  was  perturbed by restlessness and, perhaps, by the  awkwardness  of  being there  all  alone.  Without  ordering  coffee,  I  asked  for  the  bill   and disinterestedly proffered my bankcard. The waitress looked perplexed.  Viewing the  bill for the first time, I saw the words "have it on the  house"  written out.  So  they  did have style here; and they  showed  their  appreciation.  I thanked her profusely, asking that she transmit my regards to the chef.

 

            "Come again," she said, warmly and, I thought, suggestively. For a  moment I  felt younger. Then I realised that I had just committed the sin of  wishful thinking. In a hurry, I slipped through the door, which she was holding  ajar, and  there  I  was  out again in the cool Melbourne  winter  night,  with  its starless  sky. It was drizzling and despite the warmth generated by  the  wine and the atmosphere of the last hour, I was feeling cold and depressed. What an encounter –  I thought to myself –  what a strange new dish.