The Latin Cafe is a working class restaurant. Working class patrons--cops, fire fighters, elevator repairmen, gardeners, very blue collar--working class waitresses (there are no male waiters). Patrons go there in groups before their shift. I go there alone. I go there to eat, which I do quickly, and leave, also quickly. I don't know the names of anybody who goes or works there.
The staff is heavily Cuban. There is one waitress in particular who is newer, does not speak much English, therefore does not understand my "same": potato and onion omelette, Cuban toast, colada with splenda not sugar, and pay in advance because I don't like to chase my waitress down. This newer waitress is younger, is Cuban: therefore is uncommonly comely, therefore commonly big-butted.
I am in none of the demographic categories above. I always sit at a center table with my back to the front door. There was a crazy, middle-aged, heavily-rouged, non-Latin, busybody woman who I used to see every time I went there. She seemed to have an affinity for me as a fellow, which drove me mad. I was afraid that she would greet me or try to start conversation or do something the like disagreeable. I would assiduously avoid eye contact but I could feel her eyes on me. As soon as I lifted my head from my book or my phone or my legal papers she was looking at me and then would quickly dart them away. So I always sat far from her, near the door, in the center of the room with my back to her. I go there to eat, which is a bodily need but is still an imposition. I do not converse except to order and I do not people watch unless I am forced to as in the case of the crazy busybody lady. I ignore and am ignored, which is the way I prefer it.
In my studied non-studiousness however I observed a charming scene recently. A group of Otis elevator workers were sitting at their customary last table furthest away from the front door, facing that way of necessity, and about twelve feet from me. I had already ordered, from the uncommonly pretty, commonly big-butted, young, Cuban waitress and was eating when a friendly arm went up from the elevator table accompanied by a smiling hello sound. His eyes and greeting were for someone to my rear. The pretty big-butted Cuban waitress approached the elevator table and smiled in a demure way and took their orders. When she walked away she shuffled rather than walked, towards me, unnoticing me. Her back was to the elevator table now, therefore they couldn't see. Her head was slightly bent down, her eyes dipped but her mouth was turned up in the most adorable, subtle, pleased grin. She had made, or renewed, a connection with an elevator man who she clearly, from the look on her face, fancied.
I wonder if he knows. Guys are notoriously oblivious to those signals.
