His Little Mistakes.

A waiter at the Gare du Nord, in Brussels, on one occasion pressed upon me a five-franc piece, a small Turkish coin the value of which was unknown to me, and remains so to this day, a distinctly bad two francs, and from a quarter of a pound to six ounces of centimes, as change for a twenty-franc note, after deducting the price of a cup of coffee.  He put it down with the air of one subscribing to a charity.  We looked at one another.  I suppose I must have conveyed to him the impression of being discontented.  He drew a purse from his pocket.  The action suggested that, for the purpose of satisfying my inordinate demands, he would be compelled to draw upon his private resources; but it did not move me.  Abstracting reluctantly a fifty-centime piece, he added it to the heap upon the table.

I suggested his taking a seat, as at this rate it seemed likely we should be doing business together for some time.  I think he gathered I was not a fool.  Hitherto he had been judging, I suppose, purely from appearances.  But he was not in the least offended.

“Ah!” he cried, with a cheery laugh, “Monsieur comprend!”  He swept the whole nonsense back into his bag and gave me the right change.  I slipped my arm through his and insisted upon the pleasure of his society, until I had examined each and every coin.  He went away chuckling, and told another waiter all about it.  They both of them bowed to me as I went out, and wished me a pleasant journey.  I left them still chuckling.  A British waiter would have been sulky all the afternoon.

The waiter who insists upon mistaking you for the heir of all the Rothschilds used to cost me dear when I was younger.  I find the best plan is to take him in hand at the beginning and disillusion him; sweep aside his talk of ’84 Perrier Jouet, followed by a ’79 Château Lafite, and ask him, as man to man, if he can conscientiously recommend the Saint Julien at two-and-six.  After that he settles down to his work and talks sense.

The fatherly waiter is sometimes a comfort.  You feel that he knows best.  Your instinct is to address him as “Uncle.”  But you remember yourself in time.  When you are dining a lady, however, and wish to appear important, he is apt to be in the way.  It seems, somehow, to be his dinner.  You have a sense almost of being de trop.

The greatest insult you can offer a waiter is to mistake him for your waiter.  You think he is your waiter—there is the bald head, the black side-whiskers, the Roman nose.  But your waiter had blue eyes, this man soft hazel.  You had forgotten to notice the eyes.  You bar his progress and ask him for the red pepper.  The haughty contempt with which he regards you is painful to bear.  It is as if you had insulted a lady.  He appears to be saying the same thing:

“I think you have made a mistake.  You are possibly confusing me with somebody else; I have not the honour of your acquaintance.”