remote cards

I’ve got time to kill before I meet friends, and I’ve come into town straight from work. So I go for food, that Italian place, in the basement, where the owner will turn up and sing as the mood fits him. Having parked, I reach Sauchiehall St, and try and work out where the nearest bank machine in – in the opposite direction, but not as far if I were to go in the right direction. So I’m walking to that corner, girl passes me, red head, cardigan, denim skirt, black tights, look too thick for this weather, and a blue t-shirt, with yellow lettering “burn baby burn”. I get cash money for the evening, and head back to the restaurant. The red head is on the door – because it’s a basement place, they always have someone on the door with a menu to try and catch punters – tonight it’s the burn baby burn girl. I go down the stairs, the place is empty, just one waitress – not the usual French girl, a Scottish girl, shoulder length hair, skinny. Another waitress arrives after I’ve ordered my foot. One of those eastern European accents, short hair. Both girls are dressed entirely in black, though the second one has plunging neck line, which is a little more suggestive. The Scottish girl warms up the coffee machine, do you want a coffee, she asks the other girl, who pages through a magazine, bored. The other girl doesn’t respond, I said do you want a coffee, oh, no. And they get into a conversation about why she is in a funny mood – two guys following her, bugging her – I don’t catch context. The Scottish girl brings my main course – Cajun salmon, different from the last time I had it here – it’s drowning in sauce, while before it was blackened with herbs and dense flavours, still its nice, and before there was half a plate of skinny chips, this time they are big fat wedges of potato. She goes back to the bar – that’s called invasion of space, entering into your comfort zone – she tells the foreign girl. Then she wanders to a couple of joined tables, scatters a couple of things on to them, including balloons which are weighted so they don’t float off – the words HAPPY 70TH BIRTHDAY emblazoned on them. Shortly after a woman arrives, part of the party group, sits at the table by herself, with a drink. Then a couple arrive, and are sat somewhere at the back, before another two women arrive who are part of the party group. Curiously the women haven’t met before, the older of the new arrivals says – you’ll be sister-in-law – she is. They chatter, holidays, work stuff, the usual, especially for people who have just met, but are part of same extended family. I have dessert, the foreign girl takes my order – I’ll take the chocolate cake, cold, with ice cream. It’s warm – so why did they bother offering me the option? I blame its lack of flavour on it being warm – but it could just be one of those nasty bland chocolate cakes. Chocolate desserts are so over rated, because there are so many sub-standard dishes churned out; only the addition of the blob of ice cream offers any relief to it at all. But at least it kills time, and by the time I pay, its coming up for 6pm and I can go find this café we are supposed to be meeting in tonight.

Labels: burn baby burn, chocolate cake, glasgow, killing time, salmon, waitress