Cafe de Flore. The French waiter in his long white apron, with a tray poised perfectly on his hand. Swished around, seriously, attentively, listening to the customer's wants, fulfilling their desires. A young women with legs up to the ceiling asked for a scissor with her coffee. Ease-dropping had I misunderstood her request? A scissor was carried out on the waiter's tray, she cut the tag off her new coat, placing the scissor and tag on the table. Not giving much of a thanks, the waiter not bothered, retrieved the scissor and left to attend the next table.
I felt like I was in a movie set, no, no, no, a dab of color in a work of art.
Cafe de Flore we arrived around eight in the evening for a dinner drink. The mood inside the cafe was contagious: The constant French chatter that sounded like birds chirping, the flow of wine, clicking glasses of Moet, the younger woman, the older man, the waiter's discretion as he corked another bottle of wine which balanced on his tray; confidently. The waiter's serviette elegantly on his arm, he remains professionally distant yet aware of every movement. He does not listen to the conversation as he wipes the leftover crumbs from the table on to his tray, he does not react to the flirtatious dance circling around him, he serves silently and with that is the canvas, the strongest color to the fame of Cafe de Flore.
I soaked it in, feeling part of the set, dared to dart my camera in his direction… it is after all a movie set isn't it? Life is art isn't it? I wanted to capture the moment…. no, no, no I wanted to be the moment…
I raised my hand, he came. I asked for another glass of Medoc and some olives, he smiled and for some reason I blushed.
A long white apron wrapped tightly around his waist, a tray balanced on
one hand, with a serviette long and clean on his forearm, a black bow
tie on a crisp white shirt and a black vest with zipped pockets that
holds change and cash.
Leave a Reply