Five stars

The endless recounting of half empty tills meant the end of the month was upon us. This was a solemn time for our humble (read: failing) family business. Every member from grandfather to grandchild must jam weathered hands into weathered pockets and frantically feel for an amount to contribute to the cause. This was to make up for the losses, which were undoubtedly there. My older sister Sana, who I respectfully refer to as Api, calls this manoeuvre the cost of optimism.

Like clockwork, the first days of yet another month are filled with the foolish belief that with new beginnings comes change. Disappointment becomes blind hope, and then dwindles to an unobtrusive hum as the anticipated change doesn’t reveal itself. Instead the days ahead serve as a constant reminder that though business is the antithesis of booming, change may still be on the horizon.

To me, the youngest and greatest pessimistic of the group, the only change I foresee is the few coins that I may receive from our most generous customers, and even that is not guaranteed. In the confines of my heart and mind, I thank those who do not encourage my family’s false hopes.

“I remember the days when each moment was an opportunity to serve another customer,” sighed my father as he remembered the busier and better days. He sipped on tea that was barely flavoured, as the leaves had been reused in various tea breaks the last couple of days.

My mother hummed in agreement, and continued shuffling the spare change on the wooden table top into their respective categories. The job was done quickly, and the dismal amount swept away into the leather pouch to be spent in its entirety on next month’s supplies.

“Month to month living,” I thought to myself sarcastically as I chipped away at the tattered wallpaper, “what a way to live!”

My family packed into grandfathers dying vehicle to buy, trade or forage the new supplies, leaving me to tend to the restaurant alone. Before taking his seat, my father pulled his little black book from his pant pocket, and handed it to me with a weary smile. “Service comes first, you remember don’t you?”he quipped.

I rolled my eyes and looked back at him with a stare of annoyance, “Yes, I know!”

Looking on at what was left of a car as it chugged into the distance, I pondered the efficacy of such a moral code in a customer-less store.

…

The violent dinging of the bells that adorn our doors woke me from my deep slumber. My hands bolted to my face, my balled fisted mercilessly rubbing the sleep from my eyes, so as not to positively break my father’s heart. He takes my manning of the station very seriously, as I am his only son, and the one who will carry on the dead tradition that is this storefront. “First thing to go after he is,” I whispered so lowly that even the dust particles adorning the crevices of the till would not have understood the message.

“Good evening,” said a deep and unfamiliar voice, “this place still open?”

Surprise painted my nodding face white, when I realised that it was not my family that had emerged from the night, but an equally weathered and beaten face, connected to a tall man that suggested success in even just stature. As he took a seat, I examined his dress and concluded that unlike my family’s situation, his efforts of monetary gain had been fruitful. There was not one loose thread on his crisp business shirt, not a hair out of place.

But there was no time to waste. My father’s words ‘service comes first’ rang in my ear as loud and clear as the bells that awoke me from the stupor. With little black book in hand, I made my way to the table at which the mysterious man sat.

He perused the menu, unaware of my presence, or possibly uncaring of it. I opened my mouth to start the spiel father meticulously taught us, but the stranger beat me to it when he asked “Quiet night?”

“More like normal night,” I responded with a hint of despair. It was sad how one customer could excite and scare me, a born and bred waiter of a family run restaurant, into the sweating state I was in.

His eyes scanned the empty room of chair and tables before landing on me, his mouth opened to say something before closing shut into a tight line, as if trying to ensure the words would not escape. Instead, he pointed to a menu item with a large finger.

“Is this authentic?” he asked in a wondering tone.

“As authentic as it gets, most of the ingredients are foraged for,” I said before mentally banging my head against a table. I could hear my father stirring in rage as I revealed the sorry state of our ingredients in full, and without sparing detail.

“Great, I will take one of those then… oh, and a strong tea as well.”

I stammered a “yes sir,” in surprise before writing his order on a page of the little notebook in hand.

I could hear a small chuckle escape the man, and I looked up to find him staring at the black book.

“My mother had a similar little book for her cooking and foraging adventures. It is simply the best way to gather the freshest ingredients I would say,” he explained quietly, as if reminiscing on a more pleasant time.

My service would have to be great, I concluded. I excused myself to the kitchen to put together the dish that would make my father, the customer, and heck, even his mother proud.

Though I had not been privy to the bustling restaurant experience had by the generations before me, my father and grandfather’s stories painted a picture in my mind. The beads of sweat that must have gathered on their foreheads gathered similarly on my own, and the pressure of making a good dish and an impression weighed heavily on my being. In this moment, I was an owner, a provider and a creator.

The final dish was arranged as best as possible on the tray, accompanied by a steaming pot of tea that excited even my young senses.

As I placed the tray on the table, I heard the man take a long sniff before exhaling a pleasant sounding “aah,” as if the smell had pleased him greatly.

I retreated to my spot behind the till and pull the notebook out of my back pocket. I resorted to sketching the man as he ate in order to show my family when they returned. They would undoubtedly have questions, and I hoped they returned before the man left, so to hear him review my service.

...

A half an hour passed before I heard the man utter a sound. He ushered me over with his hand and whispered a small “psst” so as not to wake the local stray that slept at the table beside him. He drew a chair for me and began retelling the story of his life.

A tale of rags to riches, as picturesque and compelling as stories you may find in published works. I clung to his words, which were new and interesting in comparison to the tales my father told. Though, his story relayed a lesson that reminded me to hold onto my parent’s words tightly. With familial regrets relayed to me, some which brought the dear customer to tears, I snatched back the dismissive words I thought, yet dared not speak, earlier in the day and month. To hope is to be brave, and that is the path to success.

Before he left, what felt like a paperweight was left in my hand as payment. I fingers opened to reveal a wad of cash, which I counted to be $20,000.

I guess service does pay.