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Title: The Waiter
Author: Harry Graham [
More Titles by Graham]
"He also serves who only stands and waits!"
My hero does all three, and even more.
Bearing a dozen food-congested plates,
With silent tread (altho' his feet are sore),
He swiftly skates across the parquet floor.
None can afford completely to ignore him,
Because, of course, he "carries all before him!"
Endowed with some of Cinquevalli's charm,
He poises plate on plate, and never swerves;
Two in each hand, three more up either arm,--
A feat of balancing which tries the nerves
Of the least timid customer he serves.
So firm his carriage, and his gait so stable,
He is the Blondin of the dinner-table.
Rising abruptly at the break of day
(A custom more might copy, I confess),
The waiter hastens, with the least delay,
To don that unbecoming evening-dress
Which etiquette compels him to possess.
('Tis too the conjurer's accustomed habit,
Whence he evolves a goldfish or a rabbit.)
Each calling its especial trademark bears.
The anarchist parades a red cravat;
The eminent physician always wears
A stethoscope concealed within his hat;
A diamond stud proclaims the plutocrat;
The rural dean displays a sable gaiter,
And evening dress distinguishes the waiter.
Time was when he was elderly and staid,
With long sidewhiskers and an old-world air.
How gently, with what rev'rent hands, he laid
A bottle of some vintage rich and rare
Within a pail of ice beneath your chair,
Like some proud steward in a hall baronial
Performing an important ceremonial.
How cultured his well-modulated voice,
His manner how distingué and discreet,
As he directed your capricious choice
To what 'twere best and pleasantest to eat,
Or warmly recommended the Lafitte.
A perfect pattern of the genus homo,
More like a bishop than a major-domo.
He kept as grave as the proverbial tomb
When in some haven "hush'd and safe apart,"
You sought the shelter of a private room,
To entertain the lady of your heart
At a delightful dinner _à la carte.
(The consequences would, he knew, be shocking
Were he perchance to enter without knocking.)
Now he is haggard, pale and highly-strung,
The alien product of some Southern sun.
Who speaks an unintelligible tongue
And serves impatient patrons at a run,
Snatching away their plates before they've done.
Brisk as a bee, and restless as the Ocean,
He solves the problem of perpetual motion.
You would not look to him for good advice;
To him your choice you never would resign.
He gauges from the point of view of price
The rival worth of each respective wine;
His tastes, indeed, are frankly Philistine,
And, with a mien indifferent or placid,
He serves your claret cold and corked and acid.
His is a tragic fate, a dreary lot.
Think sometimes of his troubles, I entreat,
Who in a crowded restaurant and hot
Walks to and fro on tired and tender feet,
Watching his hungry fellow-creatures eat!
What form of earthly hardship could be greater
Than that which daily overwhelms the waiter?
[The end]
Harry Graham's poem: Waiter
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