Restaurant staffs often give their regular customers nicknames, not to ridicule or make fun, more of a short cut, so that when they come in we are better able to– okay, we do it to ridicule and make fun.

SIR PLUMPY

JACK’S – Upper East Side – Manhattan – Mid-1980s – 7:30 pm

It’s a busy Friday. Palmer and I are the only waiters on tonight, and we are kicking ass. Vicky the hostess catches me on the back staircase.

“The Plumpys are here.”

“Shit!”

Sir and Lady Plumpy are self-designated semi-regulars. They come once or twice a month, walk in, ignore the hostess, and seat themselves wherever they please. Their preferred table is the four-top against the wall in Station One, the perfect vantage point to see and be seen. Station One is my station, so I am forced – I mean, I have the privilege of waiting on them. I have no choice; I’m the only waiter they allow near their table. I run upstairs to the dining room, and hop over to Sir Plumpy’s table, making sure to grab three or four quick breaths to calm myself. Sir Plumpy is pleasant enough, but he can be a petulant Baby Huey when things didn’t go his way. Some customers want to be waited on; some want their diapers changed; Plumpy wants both, easy on the talcum.

Lady Plumpy sits alone at the table. She is anything but plump. Her nickname is an unfortunate result of being married to Sir Plumpy. Tonight, she’s a bombshell, regally splayed in a creamy silk blouse and black pencil skirt, hair up and swirling, a twisty semi-translucent beehive of perfectly streaked blondness. Lips sealed, she sits quite still, staring at nothing. Something has pissed her off.

“Good evening,” I say, “How are we tonight?”

“That is a good question.”

I scan the dining room. No Sir Plumpy.

“By yourself tonight?”

The look she shoots me says, “Unfortunately, no,” but her mouth says, “He is in the bathroom. Please tell me it is clean.”

“I cleaned it myself,” I hadn’t, but lying is a waiter’s best tool.

“Thanks God.”

“A glass of Cristal?”

“Yes. And hurry. Oh, a Coke for himself.”

My throat clenches. We stopped carrying Coke. This could be trouble. Plumpy had a spastic fit the night we ran out of ketchup.

“Oh, but we don’t carry Coke anymore. We switched to Pepsi.”

Suddenly, like a button was pushed, a dozen or so minuscule beads of sweat pop up on her forehead.

“No no no no. He will not go for that–”

“Not to worry. I’ll spoon some sugar into the Pepsi. It’ll taste just like Coke. He’ll never know.”

“Let us hope not. On your way back with my Cristal, will you check the bathroom? Last week he got lost trying to get out.”

“I’ll send the busboy in to have a look–”

“Tell the busboy to be careful. He’s in a mood. That reminds me. Do you have ketchup tonight?”

“I will not make that mistake again. I have gobs of it.”

“You might as well tell the chef to begin cooking his steak now.”

“The chef has his blowtorch on standby.”

She chuckles. Ah, I’ve finally broken through to her. “It’s you and me against the Plump,” I say unto myself.

“Please,” she says, “hurry with my Cristal.”

“Yes, Mrs. Trump,” I say.

THE RAISIN LADY

METROPOLITAN CAFE – Midtown East – Manhattan – 1998 – 5:35 pm

I’m the only waiter who waits on her because I’m the only waiter who can handle her. A walking nerve ending, she comes in once a week, usually around 5:30.

She seats herself. She has a job she’s good at (school teacher), an apartment she takes meticulous care of (she does her own plumbing), and she pays all of her bills on time: she doesn’t need a hostess telling her where to sit, thank you. She prefers one of the round four-tops in the center of the dining room. She comes directly from work, heavy laden with bags and totes that hang on her like Jacob Marley’s chains. She not-so-discreetly scans the dining room as she places each bag on its own chair, silently daring anyone in the room to snatch one. Bags in place, she sits. It looks as if she’s hosting a tea party for purses.

First thing I do is bring her a basket of dark brown raisin rolls. The sight of the heaping bread basket calms her. It’s the first food she’s seen all day. She faces the room, crosses her legs, and begins to methodically pluck out the raisins, one-by-one, chewing them like they was bubble gum. I believe she is unaware that she chews with her mouth open.

Timing is critical. The minute she stops dismembering her raisin rolls – her efforts leave an unappealing debris field of discarded bread flesh strewn across her table – she’s ready to order. It’s always the same: a modified Grecian Salad. I have her modifications memorized, but she has to repeat them every single time due to trust issues.

“Shall I take your order, Agnes?”

“The rolls don’t have enough raisins. Last week they had thirty. I counted. This week there’s only fifteen.”

“Try another roll.”

“I did. It only had thirteen. You should say something to the chef.”

Let it be. Let it be. No use telling her we import the rolls and the chef has no control over how many raisins are in each one. “I’ll inform the chef,” I say.

“I’ll take the Grecian Salad,” she says like it was the first time she’s ever ordered it, “with fried wantons from the Asian Salad. Extra red peppers. They don’t come out of a jar, do they? Peppers in jars are a breeding ground for germs.”

“The peppers do not come out of a–”

“Are you sure?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Yes.”

“The peppers are freshly roasted.”

“Good. Make sure the chicken is cooked, but not over-cooked, I don’t want it chewy. Dressing on the side. Shake it well. Throw on a ton of pumpkin seeds. They prevent cancer. Give me extra olives and feta, but on the side. Chop, do not slice the romaine. I like big chunks. Add five leaves of arugula. And I don’t want it for breakfast. Oh, a glass of house white wine. Make sure it’s cold.”

“Wait. Wine? You never order wine – ”

“I have a blind date,” she says. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her smile. “He’s meeting me here in an hour. And then we’ll go somewhere. Maybe a movie. Bring me the wine after my salad.”

“Do you want me to wait on your salad so you can have dinner together?”

“No! I don’t like men watching me eat.”

I only pretend to write her order on my dupe pad; instead I write: “The Raisin Lady,” and hand it to Israel, the salad guy. Israel knows the order. He makes it. I serve it. After poking it with her fork a dozen times to make sure it’s exactly what she ordered, Agnes digs it. It takes her about twenty minutes to finish the entire salad.

I clear her plate, brush the dead bread from the table, and refill her water glass to make it look like she’s just arrived. I place a frosty glass of Pinot Grigio in front of her. She applies lipstick and brushes her hair. Primped, ready to go, she grabs her wine glass by the stem and twirls it with fingers from both hands. She waits. Ten minutes go by, and a nice young gent with horn-rimmed glasses, a plaid button-down shirt, and thick black hair walks in the front door. He approaches Jo Jo, the hostess. Passing by on my way to Barry and Monica’s table, I hear him say, “I’m here to meet Agnes?”

“I’ll need more than that,” says Jo Jo.

I lean in, whisper, “He’s here for the Raisin Lady,” and head straight for Barry and Monica.

Barry and Monica are the sort of regulars a waiter craves: they’re human. They eat here so often they know everything that goes on in the restaurant. They even got married here. We are their hobby. They are well aware of the eccentricities of the Raisin Lady.

“Is Jo Jo mad at us? says Barry in a stage whisper.

“She’s furious with you” I joke. “Why do you ask?”

“She sat us next to the Raisin Lady.”

I lean in, “Get this. Raisin has a blind date.”

“He’d better be blind.”

“Oh, stop, you” says Monica, then turns for a clandestine look. “Where is he? She’s alone.”

I look. The Raisin Lady is, indeed, alone. I ask Jo Jo what happened to her date.

“He took one look and walked out.”

Agnes waits an hour for her date to show. I don’t have the heart to tell her he’s on the lam. She gives up the ghost and asks for her check. I bring it, careful not to mention her date, or lack thereof. While signing the Amex slip she says, “What are you doing Thursday?”

“Working.”

“It’s Passover.”

“I know. We do a great Passover dinner. Gefilte fish, bitter herbs, the works. You should stop by.”

“A Seder with strangers?”

“Why not?”

“It’s a sin to be single at Seder. Will you sit with me…if I come?”

“I can’t. I’ll be working. But I’ll wait on you. We can toast Moses. You want me to reserve you a table?”

“No,” she says. She gathers her bags, tosses back the remains of her wine, takes a last look at the table, then turns to me, “It’s just Passover, not a blind date.”

She walks out.