August 8, 2003
Whenever I calculate the tip in a restaurant, I inevitably recall the evening in London when my powers of calculation and concentration were challenged as they may never be again. It was June 23, 1983, a Thursday evening.
Laurie and I had gone to England to visit our friends Rod, Judith & the incredibly new Ben Tolley. We spent a wonderful week with them, and then went on to London to do things like see "The Mouse Trap," Agatha Christie's long-running play, shop at Harrod's, visit the British Museum to gape at the Rosetta Stone, and drink real ale in venerable pubs.
A friend of Laurie's had recommended that we dine at Langan's, a "brasserie" owned by a colorful but wayward genius named Peter Langan and his partner, actor Michael Caine. She said to start with the spinach soufflé with anchovy sauce, and when the waiter echoed her advice, we fell into step. At the next table were half a dozen gentlemen from British Airways, in white shirts and loosened ties, celebrating a co-worker's good fortune. He was getting married and going immediately to Africa to head up the airline's office in Botswana. This was his bachelor dinner and send-off, and they were a festive yet gentlemanly crew.
The appetizer was excellent, as were Laurie's rack of lamb and my Scottish salmon. When the last of the dishes were cleared and the waiter was returning with my credit card, the gentlemen at the round table were receiving a visitor as well, a very attractive blonde woman in a silvery fur coat who had just glided into the restaurant and walked confidently up to their table. As our waiter placed the credit card receipt at my right hand for my consideration and signature, the woman was asking who the lucky groom might be. He was identified, and the woman let her coat slip from her bare shoulders, revealing a black silk Merry Widow bustier, with lace and laces, to go with her black stockings and black high heels.
Now some people might think of black as a somber color, but I assure you that was not the effect. A few well-placed scarlet ribbons accented the ensemble and gave it a distinctly upbeat air. Having garnered everyone's rapt attention, she smiled, produced a small sheet of paper, and began singing a lyric of her own creation to the tune of "My Favorite Things." The Sound of Music indeed.
"Now you are going to go to Botswana," she began, in a beautiful voice that suggested experience on the London stage. Meanwhile, our waiter stood waiting. Overcoming the desire to hang on every note, I bowed my head and began calculating the tip, in pounds sterling. I did the addition, signed, and smiled at the waiter, who nodded and shimmered away.
Laurie looked at me and said, "That was very impressive, Kihm."
The song was over. The groom got a kiss, his mates all applauded, and the applause rippled throughout the restaurant. The songstress slipped back into her fur coat and strode smiling to the door, collecting smiles in return from everyone along the way.
I wish I could have stared the whole time, but sometimes one has to show a little self-discipline.
Faithful Readers © 2003 by Kihm Winship