mysteries

When you need a loo you have to buy a drink at a bar--it's a sort of tourist economy perpetual motion machine. So I'm in a cafe in Verona, squirming in my seat because I need the waiter to take my order before I can go. There he stands, not five metres away, looking everywhere but at me. After a small eternity I break a cardinal rule and go up to him, make my salutation and ask for the toilet. He swivels his head, eyes me coldly and turns away. I dash for the loo thinking, oh great. Here's some Italian ragazzo waiting for a friend, looking very smart in his white trousers and salon-bleached flicky hair and strap-on manbag, and I've ruined his day by mistaking him for a waiter. I get back from the toilet, sit down as casually as I can, and the dude brings me a menu.

So now I have to tell you the story of The Man Who Wouldn't Serve Nick T. Nick is a writer, director, student of everything and very nice guy. In other words, just another prodigy out of that hothouse of fabulousness that is Perth (is it the isolation? do they put something in the water?). He used to go with Matt to a bar in Perth called Caffe Sport. It had cheap pasta and cheaper red wine and was open late, so they went there all the time. There'd be four people, say, and they'd all give their orders to this one guy, who would return with the goods soon afterwards--minus Nick T's order. There'd be three glasses of wine, three plates of pasta, and a sad, empty space where Nick's food ought to be. He never found out what this waiter's gripe was, in fact not a word was ever said about it on either side. His friends just took to ordering extra portions for him. But cutlery? Forget about it.