Operatic Popcorn
Bob was the black sheep
of an old and snotty Virginia
When I knew him he was
working as a waiter in an upmarket restaurant on the Riverwalk. Being gay, he
chose to be flamboyantly so, his twist on the old cliché being that he was as
camp as a row of rainbow tents. He was charming and witty and knew what
patrician manners are. Both tourists and the local moneyed classes dug his act.
The first time I worked
a shift with him I heard a debutante type order a Colorado Bulldog as her
aperitif. A Colorado Bulldog is composed of a good-sized glup of vodka, plus
Kahlúa, Coca-Cola, and milk. ‘Oh-h,’
Bob crowed in a high-camp singsong, ‘a throw-up drink! How lovely!’ Then, with
a fluidly graceful turn of his head he asked, ‘And what will you be slurping on?’
to her apparent date, who laughed like a donkey.
This was not, I was to
learn, an isolated occurrence.
One evening a dozen
society divas in full furs-and-jewels drag arrived, having requested, when
making their reservation, that Bob and only Bob be their waiter. It was an
early dinner, as they had also booked themselves a box at the opera that
evening.
Bob, calculating the
likely market value of said furs and jewels, not to mention the designer frocks
and accessories, did a flawless job on them. He charmed and fluttered and
oh-so-gently teased, got their orders right despite their giggling and their
lame attempts to tease back, delivered the plates as soon as the kitchen put
them up, and gave every order to the right person without asking what was whose
– with the plate facing in the proper direction, and kept their glasses filled
and their crumbs brushed. He delivered the tab spot on time for them to enjoy a
leisurely walk to the opera, and bussed the table as they made ready to pay.
It was that ‘made ready
to pay’ that put the first red flag up. The tab came to about $250 (in 1975
money: about US$1,150 in 2017 terms).
First they had Bob
point out to them on the tab who ate what, as if they couldn’t remember what it
was that they’d eaten.
You see, the one called
Sue Ellen explained, they’d decided to each come up with cash for their meals
so that Darling Bob wouldn’t have to make up separate checks.
Bob’s ‘How thoughtful’
reply barely masked his rising dread.
Anyway, they all worked
out what their share was, with some spirited negotiations in regard to who
drank how much of the shared bottles of wine, and handed over their cash to one
called Lily Anne, apparently the senior member of the group, a well-upholstered
horror wearing a tiara sprinkled with diamonds that might have been real but,
Bob reckoned, probably weren’t.
Lily Anne collected and
counted the money, then reached into her Louis Vuitton pouchette clutch bag
only to discover that she’d left her wallet – with all her credit cards as well
as her cash – in her day bag.
All the other ladies
understood and consoled her and rummaged around in their designer bags for
spare change to cover for Lily Anne. Finally, with time becoming a factor, she
proudly handed the legal tender over to Bob with the comment, ‘I know you’ll
understand, Darling Bob, but it being cash we only have five dollars left over
for your tip.’
Bob did that automatic
calculator-in-the-head thing that all waiters do, and came up with the
calculation that five is 2% of 250. The bare minimum tip for moderately
acceptable service would have been 15%, or about $37.50, but for the
exceptional service Bob had provided, and bearing in mind the ladies’
ostentatiously flaunted wealth, he considered that anything under 20% would be
an insult, and 25%+, say $65-$70, would have been appropriate.
He accepted the stack
of bills with thanks, peeled a fiver off the top of it, and stuck it back into
Lily Anne’s pudgy hand, gently closed her bejewelled fingers around it, and
said, ‘Oh no, dear – you’ll need this when you get to the opera to buy
yourselves some popcorn.’
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