The Smile

A smile was almost the normal expression on the waiter’s face as he bustled around the Le Train Bleu Brasserie at Gare du Lyon. It flowed from his chin to his forehead and he appeared to be unable to stop it. Except for his smile, his face was quite ordinary, neither good or bad looking. He switched easily from French to English to Spanish to German depending on the accent of his clients, but always with that smile.

Because I was having a big meal with my returning housemate that night, I only ordered an entrée rather than the main course, asparagus wrapped in salmon with a poached egg enough to tide me over on the Paris-Geneve TGV ride.

I was seated in my favourite spot near the painting of the station in the early 1900s filled with people saying good-bye including a mother bending over to kiss her young son. Baskets and suitcases were scattered among the passengers.

When the waiter helped a woman into her seat next to me by moving out a table, I ordered a tea, which would kill the required time to board the train. However, the words on the plastic covering of the tea bag saying, “OPEN HERE” lied. I manipulated, I bit, I twisted. Nothing. The woman at the next table tried. She could not do it. Good grief, I didn’t think I was that old and feeble.

The waiter came to the rescue.

“Couldn’t you have struggled a bit?” I asked.

He did a good acting job tearing the rest of the covering with difficulty.

When he brought the check, he’d written on the back in English: “Thank you, have a nice day, Eric” the only time that has happened in the dozens and dozens of times I have eaten there.
Eric should go far in life.