This waitress has permanently pursed lips and barely refrains from rolling her eyes when you make a stuttering, flu-mangled attempt to use your high school textbook French. She pretends not to understand when you order a ginger kombucha. This waitress can see into your soul. She knows that you’re not even a real vegan, you’re just an imposter who came here for the healthy and ethical food.
In the kitchen, she sharpens a machete with a stone. Other waitresses are terrified of her, all the waiters are attracted to her against their better judgement, and the manager avoids eye contact. She never actually does anything with the machete, she just finds the activity soothing.
When she takes your credit card, her face slowly contorts into a forced smile. It’s like watching her bend a solid iron pipe wrench with her face and you shudder. You wonder if every waitress in Montreal will hate you.
This waitress coos at you with her baby voice and frolics from table to table with stacks of menus like a lamb in springtime. She leans in to ask you in a tone of secrecy if you would like to sit on the terrace and you say yes, you didn’t even know there was a terrace. You sit on the terrace. When she delivers your chickpea curry, she brings you extra napkins. This waitress continues to bring you unsolicited napkins throughout the night as though you were actually eating a plate of twenty-four buffalo wings.
Every night she collects the leftover scraps of coconut bacon from the tables and brings them to the local animal shelter where she hand-feeds them to stray dogs with neuro-muscular disorders.
When rain begins to drum on the plastic roof, she gingerly unfurls a series of shower curtains around the exposed side of the terrace to protect you from the elements. This waitress is followed by an entourage of docile woodland creatures with huge, sparkling eyes. She oozes maples syrup. You tip her twenty percent.