Paul, I wonder if he's the young fellow what cleared our table the last time me & the Mrs. ate at Montana Mike's?
I took him for a fly fisherman right away because of the anguish in his eyes... the Corps had been running water non-stop for weeks. He looked like he wanted to be somewhere else, but had nowhere else to go.
That, and he was wearing wading sandles over lycra socks.
Could've been anyone right? Even the humorless rubicon. But no, there was an odd dichotimy about him. It's what made him memorable, and I'm thinking now it might have been your Claude.
Here was a fellow who clearly has been in the restaurant business all of his working life. His bussing skills were incredible. He was stacking and sorting as easy as you and I breathe. It was poetry in motion.
But, when it came to setting a table, he was completely lost. Condiments were dropped, shakers fumbled, and daily-special teepees flattened. The ability to encoss utensils in a napkin was beyond his skill-set. He tried harder and harder, with a grim and hopeless persistence, until it seemed the table itself might come apart from the thrashing.
His co-wokers, apparently accustomed to the routine, were able to break his trance with the clicking sounds of a Martin model 67.
Paul, I'd go back and check for ya, but me & the Mrs' next anniversary isn't until March, sorry.