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Finding the Dessert Fork

A tale of etiquette

By M. Michael TRARPPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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I was enjoying my lunch at the counter. It was a typical greasy spoon. A long counter started near the entry door, capped by a cash register, and extended along the length of the diner with a series of red-cushioned stools bolted to the floor spaced out beneath it. Opposite the counter was a line of Formica-topped tables with red booth seating beneath the wall-to-wall windows.

It was my Friday lunch out, and already the second time I’d been in that day. I commute by train to the central part of the city for work, and the diner is at the street level in the building across from my office. I eat my breakfast there every day: two slices of wheat toast, a small glass of orange juice, and a cup of black coffee, refilled twice. The rest of the week, I bring my lunch in a small fabric sack and place it in the refrigerator in the employee break room. It always consists of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, carrot sticks, and an apple sliced into wedges so I won’t be seen taking awkward bites from the whole fruit.

But on Fridays, I step out of the office at 12:15. At 12:22, I place my order for a dry cheeseburger with tomato and lettuce; extra crispy, shoestring French fries with one paper soufflé cup of ketchup; and a large glass of water with no ice. And extra napkins. By 12:45, I’m walking back across the street to my office to resume my work as an accountant promptly at 1 pm.

On this Friday, one of the partners of the firm where I work waylaid me on the way to the elevator and asked for some quarterly reports for a big client. Perfunctorily, I looked at my wristwatch with a sense of dread. While producing the reports would take but a few seconds at my computer, I fretted about not getting my regular seat in the diner. I told the boss I’d have those reports in a jiffy, and finally walked through the office doors at 12:19. The [dings] of the elevator marking each floor we passed as it descended gave me a shot of adrenaline and sped up my heart. I rocked back and forth, shifting my weight listlessly from foot to foot. The doors opened to a mob of folks who took their lunch at 11:30. I weaved through the throng, feeling sweat beading on my temples, enduring elbows and evil eyes and silent curses. Finally, I pushed against the revolving door and emerged outside.

Once my shoes hit the sidewalk, I glanced franticly to my left to judge the distance of approaching cars. My gait was a restrained trot across two lanes of traffic before I looked right. I halted on the yellow line to allow a sports car to pass, screeching its horn and gunning its engine. I ran across the remaining lanes of traffic, hopped over the curb, not stopping for breath until I could place a hand on the door of the diner, doubled over and gasping. Once my breathing was under control, I walked through the door.

“Hey, sugar! We got worried, honey, you maybe had yourself a heart attack in that office of yours.” The waitress set a glass of water at the counter. “Two more minutes and we wouldn’ta been able to hold your seat! You want your usual?”

“Oh, my, yes, thank you,” I stuttered, disarmed by the waitress’s conviviality. I plunked down on my regular stool and drank all the water in my glass in a gulp.

“Slow down there, sugar.” The waitress replaced my empty glass with a full one. “Go easy on this one, hon, you’re liable to give yourself a stomach ache.”

I took a napkin from the stack the waitress set next to my water. I rubbed my fingers and thumbs against it even though they didn’t need drying. Then I balled the napkin up and dabbed at my forehead and temples. My watch read 12:29, so I lost a few extra minutes walking through the early lunch crowd. I tapped my foot on the ground and held the crumpled napkin to my lips. It was 12:44 when my burger was finally placed in front of me.

I dug in right away, taking an extra large bite of my burger. While chewing, I grabbed three and four fries at a time, dipped them in ketchup, and stuffed them into my mouth. One red-tipped potato slipped my grip and fell end over end and daubed my shirt. I jumped to my feet as the fry hit the ground. I grabbed another napkin, rolled it up, and dipped the end in my water glass. I held one dry napkin on the inside of my shirt with one hand, while I scrubbed at the ketchup with the damp one.

He walked into the diner while I was attending to my stained shirt. His gait was deliberate as he moved to an open table. “You want a piece of cake, sweetie pie?” The waitress called from behind the counter. The man glanced over at her, the corner of his mouth ticked up in a semblance of a grin. Over large glasses resting on high, rounded cheeks made his face look small, yet cherubic. He sat down with the same, grim determination with which he entered the restaurant. He began loosening his tie the moment his cheeks hit the seat. He turned his head toward the counter and called:

“Yes. And a sippy cup of milk.”

“I know how you like it.”

The man set his tie next to him in the booth. Next, he unbuttoned his shirt at his wrists, then, freed the buttons down the center, starting at the neck. After unbuckling his belt, he pulled at the fabric that had been tucked in at the waist. He removed his dress shirt, loosely folded it, and set it down on top of his tie. The man pulled a tank top undershirt over his head and laid it down upon his other clothes. He stood up, removed a piece of cloth from his pants pocket and set it on the table in front of where he was sitting. Next, he removed his shoes, placing one toe on the back of the other foot’s heel. He rolled his socks off his feet, then, placed each one in the shoe corresponding to the foot from which he had removed it. He placed his shoes neatly at the base of the booth. The pants were next. He carefully unbuttoned and unzipped them, folded them three times and set them atop his shirts and tie. After reseating himself, clad only in a pair of white briefs, he picked up the bit of cloth he had set on the table. It turned out to be a bib he tied around his neck. The bib hung across his chest and was embroidered with the words “Baby’s Big Day” in curly, blue letters. Finally, he removed his glasses, folded them, and placed them at the edge of the table closest to the windows.

I was so mesmerized and perplexed by the man disrobing, I hadn’t looked at, much less nibbled on, the remaining bits of my lunch. I turned back to my own repast, determined to finish eating so I could return to my office. While tucking back into my burger, the waitress swept past my seat holding a plate, upon which was a gigantic slice of chocolate cake. It was two layers of moist, dense crumb with a shiny, thick frosting cascading down the dessert in extravagant whorls and waves. I was taken aback by both its size and beauty. I followed the cake with my eyes, chewing nonchalantly on my food. I even spun on my stool to watch the waitress place the cake at the man’s table next to a plastic cup with a secured plastic lid.

“Is my big boy ready for some cake?” the waitress cooed at the man.

The man made a high-pitched noise in his throat that sounded like a prolonged “Aah!” Afterward, he smashed his face into the cake. Straightening up, he pawed at it with both hands. He grasped two handfuls of cake and smeared it all over his mouth and face. The man masticated wildly, making “nang, nang, nang” noises and coughing out bits of cake and frosting that clung to his bib and the hairs on his chest. He grabbed his cup of milk with the palms of his hands, arms outstretched so that he looked like a trained seal clapping its fins. He raised his glass to his lips and sucked on the lid of the sippy cup with loud slurping sounds. He moved his hands away from his mouth causing milk to drip from the cup, down his face, and onto his chest. When no more bits of cake were left, the man picked up the plate and licked it long and languorously. Finally, he patted his belly, smearing more thick frosting on his torso.

Watching this display, I had completely forgotten to chew and discovered a gob of hamburger sitting placidly on my tongue. I took another napkin from the counter and spit the food into it, rolling it up and placing it on my plate with the rest of my uneaten lunch. I mindlessly pulled some bills from my wallet and left them on the counter. The man was wiping his face and hands with his bib. I stepped over to his table and sat across from him. Chocolate still smeared his face and large crumbs and frosting clung to his chest.

“Well, hello. Have we met?” He reached a hand across the table in an effort to shake. I hesitantly extended my own hand, clasping his with just the tips of my fingers. I pulled back quickly, realizing I didn’t have a napkin to clean myself afterwards.

“What, I mean, why, er, what was that?” I asked him. He picked his pants up from the booth and stood up. He was stepping into the pant legs when he replied.

“You’ll have to be more specific. This diner serves the best chocolate cake. And I avail myself of it every Friday.” He sat down and began to put on his socks and shoes.

“Sure. But why do eat it like that?”

“What do you mean? Isn’t that how you eat cake?”

“Well, I usually use a fork.”

“Well, let me tell you. On my first birthday, my parents gave me a huge slice of cake. And that’s exactly how I ate it then. I don’t remember it, but, I did see a video of it.”

“But, didn’t your parents teach you to eat with utensils?”

“Sir, I eat my steak with a knife and fork. Cake, I eat with reckless abandon.” With that, he stood up and put on first his undershirt, then buttoned up his dress shirt. Small globs of frosting could be seen leeching through the fabric.

I looked at my watch. 1:30?! I ran out the door of the diner, once again crossed the street most precariously, and finally made it back to my desk at 1:45. I stayed late to make up for my dalliance at the diner and took a late train home. My fiancé upbraided me for my tardiness. We had invited her parents over for dinner and by the time I walked through the front door, they were already finishing their soup. Once we’d finished our main course, my betrothed said:

“My dear, you won’t believe the most wonderful dessert mummy and daddy picked up in the city.” She brought in a magnificent chocolate cake, cut four large slabs, and placed the biggest in front of me. I felt giddy, and light headed, and I began to loosen the knot of my tie.

Short Story
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About the Creator

M. Michael TRARP

Citizen of the Universe, Rock & Roll Poet

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