Cake First

The other day we ate breakfast at a café that was at the corner of Schubertstrasse and Mendelssohnstrasse. There was a row of tables outside the café, and a wicker beach chair was set up at each table. Standing in front of an unoccupied table--two tables were already taken--we wondered if we should first go into the café to order or to take a seat and wait to be served. This question was settled after we noticed a laminated card on one of the tables. It said, “Please order inside.”

After we placed our orders--two lattes and two pieces of cake--we walked back outside and took a seat. I had a book and began reading to you. But a few moments after I started, I began to feel self-conscious. After all, there were people sitting only a few tables away, and I thought I might be disturbing them. You noticed that I didn’t feel 100 percent comfortable and asked me if I’d like to come sit next to you in the beach chair. I thought all my problems were solved, but the moment I sat down next to you, I noticed it was way hotter in the beach chair. The hood was probably keeping in the heat. Nevertheless, I ignored my discomfort and continued to read.

After a few minutes, the waitress came with our cake. Each piece was on a plate and she put both plates on the table. She then went back inside the cafe. I was expecting her to return momentarily with the lattes, but she didn’t. I thought that I was maybe being impatient, but then another couple minutes passed, and another, and another...

What the fuck?” I finally said. I had been trying to hold back my annoyance but couldn’t any longer. “Where the fuck is she?”

“I don’t get it, either.”

“I mean, who does that? Who brings the cake first?”

“It makes no sense, you know, because that’s how they make money. How many times have you finished your first drink before they even come with the food? Then you have to order another drink.”

“It’s like, Waitressing 101. Bring the fucking coffee first. What are we supposed to do with just cake?”

“It’s ridiculous; it makes no sense.”

“OK, I’ll tell you what. If I get to the end of this page and she still hasn’t brought out the coffees, I’ll go in and ask, OK?”

“OK.”

About three-quarters down the page the waitress came out with our coffees.

“Oh, perfect,” I said, as I moved the plates with cake out of the way to make room for the lattes.

“There we go, two lattes,” the waitress said.

“Awesome, thank you,” I said.