The Rainbow Snapper

The waitress, in the small restaurant in South Melbourne, was looking at me askance. She was one of those buxom self-assured women, who prefer to be called girls and who want you to believe they were going to remain eternally youngish. She had rattled their “specials” down as soon as I was seated and, coaxingly, mentioned that the snapper and the rainbow trout were real fresh. Although I was the first customer she was now standing there restlessly, overtly resenting that, instead of ordering one of these dishes, I had proceeded with a conscientious perusal of the menu. “A slow operator” – was written all over her face and the assessment, I suspected, was not confined to my standing as a patron of the establishment.

“I’ll have a rainbow snapper” - I said benignly.

“Any starter” – she said mechanically with her smile returning – and then the meaning of my answer hit her.

She pondered for a moment, concluding I must have confused things. “Foreigner,” she was musing. Had she been trying to make a guess about my background? For the moment, in any event, such contemplation was far removed from her thoughts. She was deciding how to handle an awkward situation. Finally, with the expression of a schoolmistress humouring a dumb child, she said gingerly but somewhat patronisingly: “You want a rainbow trout?” and then quickly: “Any starter?”

“Soup of the day and a rainbow snapper.” I said firmly. You simply cannot let these strong willed women have their way without putting up a struggle!

“But we don’t have rainbow snapper; only rainbow trout. Rainbow snapper – no such thing.” She was now perplexed and turning plainly hostile.

“But I want a rainbow snapper!”

We kept glaring at one another. Impatience and chagrin were now spoiling her quite pretty face. I suspected that this was, when needed, the expression she used to spur dithering boyfriends into doing the right thing. After a moment of silence she made her last attempt. Pushing the menu right under my nose she explained with deliberate precision: “Look, here it says Rainbow trout' and here – you see – Snapper’, no `Rainbow’. You see?” I nodded, giving her an ingratiating twinkle.

“Well,” she went on victoriously, pointing out the appropriate line in the menu “You want this, or” – moving her finger dextrously to the snapper – “that.”

It was a good try, but she had been too slow. I took the menu, pointed at the word `Rainbow’ and explained: “I want this” now moving my finger to the next line “with that. Alright?”

For a moment I thought she was going to thump me, as if I were a naughty boy in a special type of establishment. But here in the restaurant she had to act like a lady. Without a further word she fled into the kitchen. She was too upset to even wriggle her bottom.

I looked with appreciation at the decor of the cosy restaurant. Although it had remained soothingly empty, the place did not look deserted. Some Aquarelles on the main wall and a few pot plants gave this little ground-floor shop, which used to be a milliner’s establishment, a welcoming atmosphere. It seemed a pity they were so inarticulate with their dishes. To my surprise I started to miss the waitress. It finally dawned on me that she was attractive.

The door of the kitchen opened and the chef was coming straight to me. In spite of his troubled face, he looked the role. A white hat and sparkling uniform covered his enormous bulk. He looked at me menacingly: “What is the trouble?”

“What trouble?”

“With the order. We only serve what is on the menu.”

“I asked for a rainbow snapper,” I said genially. Fighting him would have been foolish. He had the bearing of a Viking warrior.

To my surprise, he became gentle. A brotherly look came over his face; the smouldering irritation left his eyes and he tried to smooth matters over.

“Trout is river fish. You call it a rainbow trout because of the stripes you see through the clear water. Snapper is a sea fish; so no reflection – no rainbow.”

He kept watching me intently to see my reaction. I was now tired of the farce.

“Oh, all right. Rainbow trout then,” I said, mournfully. Must we lose all our dreams? The chef was touched by my deflated demeanour. His expression became abstract; he was musing to himself in undertone. Then his face brightened.

“Look, you really want a snapper cooked like a rainbow trout?”

“Precisely!”

“Alright, I’ll try but it’ll taste awful. Snapper is better fried; not grilled with almonds. Flesh is too thick. I’ll do my best.”

He walked back to the kitchen with the satisfied expression of one who had solved a hitherto unintelligible mystery; like Darwin describing the missing link; or Columbus when he sighted America. I heard him talking triumphantly with the waitress. The word `eccentric’ was repeated a number of times.

The door of the kitchen opened an the waitress staged her return. The smile, now welcoming warm and, I thought, alluring, was back. I noticed she had put on a new layer of make-up. It was clear from her belaboured attempt at light heartedness that she felt the need of regaining her lost authority:

“So you wanted a Snapper cooked like a trout? Why didn’t you say so? Ah?”

She stopped for a moment, looking at me apprehensively. Then she resumed her courage: “What will you have to drink?”

Another skirmish seemed undesirable. So, I asked for dry white wine and, to expiate my sins, asked her to have a glass with me. This put me back on the list of gents! She joined me, beaming broadly, and – forgetting the old maxim that curiosity killed the cat – wanted to know all about me. Predictably, I started to like her; how could I possibly help it when she chose such an interesting topic for her conversation. Also, she was sipping her drink like a lady. The impression of vulgarity disappeared when she sat relaxed in the chair opposite me, cutely crossing her legs.

The chef reappeared from the kitchen. He wore the expression of a man who had entered the gates of El Dorado.

“Your rainbow snapper,” he gloated “it’s not half bad. Quite a dish. I put in a bit of garlic; very French. Salad or vegies?”

It looked a beautiful dish. The waitress, now back to her duties, placed it proudly in front of me. You could have thought it was the dish of the house!

The entrance door opened and a tall young man, in jeans and a leather jacket, came in. He gave the waitress, who was looking exceedingly attractive after two glasses of Barossa Mosel, an eager glance. I had the impression that he had come to the joint to have the chance of staring at her. It was quite clear that she recognised him but seemed somewhat less than enthusiastic at his appearance. Was he another slow operator?

“Any special tonight?”

“We have a rainbow snapper,” she announced nonchalantly.

“A rainbow snapper?”

“New idea of our chef,” she explained pointedly favouring me with a conspiratorial glance “Like that gentleman is having over there.”

He gave way graciously and ordered the dish. But he was looking at me suspiciously from the corner of his eye. I buried my head in the dish and tried to look neutral. I was now regretting the entire business. A trout would have been nicer when cooked in this way.

The waitress went to place the order. With the airs of one who intends to get to the bottom of things, the newly arrived patron turned to me: “They always have new things in this place. Wish they would stick to their menu.”

“You don’t have to order a dish you don’t fancy.”

“But she keeps insisting; very pushy she is, Lotti, … about the menu I mean. She is a nice girl, if you know what I mean, very popular.”

It seemed best to avoid unasked questions. The safest thing in a restaurant is to discuss the food.

“Look, you don’t have to come back if you don’t like what they cook?” I pointed out, knowing full well that we were at cross purposes.

“But it is only the food I don’t like,” he said lamely.

It seemed unwise to point out that in a restaurant the quality of the fare was of some significance. He was still trying to bring the waitress’ name up in the conversation, when she returned and, somewhat ungraciously, placed one glass of wine in front of him and a second at the opposite side of the table. She was about to sit down when the door opened again and an aeging couple came in.

^The old gentleman was dressed up too neatly. His ruddy face and rough hands did not match his pressed suit and discreet silk tie. His wife looked an old fashioned matron of a lower middle-class background. The waitress, who welcomed them like regulars, helped both of them, with a maternal air, to remove their coats.

“Any specials?” asked the husband when she placed the menu in front of them. I suspected that his eyesight was too poor to read the tightly printed bill of fare; but he had remained too proud to wear special purpose glasses.

“I want my pate and carpet bag steak,” said the old lady plaintively, pronouncing pate as patio.

“We have a rainbow snapper,” said the waitress warmly, talking familiarly to the husband.

“Is it good?” The old gentleman did not bat an eyelid and seemed to accept the rainbow snapper as a matter of course. His wife was equally unbridled.

“I don’t want no rainbow schlapper. Pate and steak,” she reiterated angrily. I could not help beaming at her; I like people who know their own mind.

“Why not try the rainbow snapper?” asked the waitress. “It is a new dish; straight from a chef in London. Very good; cook recommends it.”

“Oh, all right then,” said the old gentleman, placing his own order and looking placidly at his wife.

She was still rebelling, bent on having her way. But even as she spoke the fire went out of her eyes. Years of submission to her husband’s authority and whims got the better of her.

“If you say so, dear,” she said forlornly.

For a moment he looked disconcerted. Then, with an even broader accent, manifesting his rural background, he said to the waitress: “And we’ll have a good bottle of Champagne; the one my wife likes.”

Both women beamed at him. Obviously, his peasant intuition had aided him to find a compromise. Everyone’s honour was intact. “A new Solomon,” I thought to myself.

The waitress returned in no time with three plates of rainbow snapper. Obviously, the chef, who must have been an enthusiast for innovations, was concocting the new dish safe in the knowledge that it would be fostered on his patrons. His surmise was well founded; a few new arrivals, most of them regulars, submissively ordered the new dish of the house.

The old gentleman and his wife were busy with their knives and forks. Both of them would have been out of place in the Menzies Rialto. The young man in the jeans tackled his dish gingerly, initially with a smiling face but later on with a suppressed grimace.

“You like it?” asked the waitress, standing very close to him and looking at him coaxingly.

He took yet another mouthful and then confirmed his approval with a forced grin. The waitress sank into the chair placed opposite his and they started to snicker. After a few minutes she left. I kept watching him closely; his face was alight with happiness.

“You do seem to enjoy the dish,” I could not resist saying.

“Excellent, excellent,” he said, without looking at his plate and fumbling excitedly with the cutlery, “first time I dare ask Lotti out.”

“The dish must be an aphrodisiac,” I said trying to keep irony out of my voice.

“An aphrodisiac?” he asked hesitatingly, trying to discern the meaning of the foreign word.

“You know, a dish or medicine that gives you courage; makes you feel big,” I explained, thinking to myself that licence was a poetic privilege.

“Oh,” he said, dubiously, uncertain whether I was serious or jocular. Then, with an air of confidence: “Lotti is a nice girl; a lot of blokes take her out. But for me, she’s special!”

The old gentleman snorted. I looked at him with surprise. Had he been eavesdropping? But he seemed engrossed in a conversation with his wife. Looking critically at the rainbow snapper, he was filling both their glasses with the bubbly yellowish liquid. I could hear the wife, whining in undertone: “Should have stuck to my pate and steak.” Then, looking at me ominously through half closed eyes, she said quite loudly: “You never know what these foreigners choifs are getting up to.”

It seemed pointless to remark that the chef was an Australian born and bred and that, in any event, pate was also a foreign dish. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason I felt dispirited and out of place. The sensation took me by surprise. With Pat – my wife – happily away in Singapore for one of her spells, what could be nicer than a light hearted evening in this cosy though somewhat pretentious restaurant? Did it really matter that I was ten thousand kilometres away from my original home, Vienna?

I knew that the sensible thing was to remain seated for some time. But I was perturbed by restlessness and, perhaps, by the awkwardness of being there all alone. Without ordering coffee, I asked for the bill and disinterestedly proffered my bankcard. The waitress looked perplexed. Viewing the bill for the first time, I saw the words “have it on the house” written out. So they did have style here; and they showed their appreciation. I thanked her profusely, asking that she transmit my regards to the chef.

“Come again,” she said, warmly and, I thought, suggestively. For a moment I felt younger. Then I realised that I had just committed the sin of wishful thinking. In a hurry, I slipped through the door, which she was holding ajar, and there I was out again in the cool Melbourne winter night, with its starless sky. It was drizzling and despite the warmth generated by the wine and the atmosphere of the last hour, I was feeling cold and depressed. What an encounter – I thought to myself – what a strange new dish.