local cafe haunted by america
She arrived smoking a cigarette, smacking her lips to salve the caustic aftertaste of the butt-end of an American Spirit. I could call her lithe, I did. She had the air of being there, all the time she was successfully justifying her presence. Inasmuch as I was concerned about my own appearance to others, I did feel a distinct sense of betterment the moment I could be counted as being in her company. To walk with her publicly was to presumably be within her circles, however presumably small they ran – which could be assumed to be small owing to her striking nature. Those who tend to strike people tend to have many vying for their attention and therefore must be slim in their picking.
Entering Walrus, I am struck immediately by the decor, understated but undeniably dineresque. The room: boothed and tiled. Vinyl stools cling to the floor. It is 10:48 AM and the breakfast hangers-on are dispersing for the early lunchers, their parting not unlike hotel curtains. I take up position in the booth, gestured there by a waitress. I order coffee and wait for my friend.She was always hanging around, never going places, she was always already at the place where everybody wanted to end up. She had this tendency to speak with an affected vagueness, spurred on by her timidly indistinct accent – she had a continental drawl – I never quite knew where she stood. She entered the room like a loud noise.
Time was passing, and I began to have the feeling that too much time had elapsed between my sitting down and my not ordering food. My coffee cup was empty save for the dregs which I compulsively left behind. Any moment the waitress could return, asking with a shy frankness: “Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” I hoped that she would arrive if only to save me from embarrassment. I was forgetting the object of our meeting entirely. She is walking down the road. She is coming upon the cafe now. As she walks she snaps necks toward her like a jazz player snaps his fingers. She is beautiful – if I should venture so far as to describe her physically. More could be said on the subject but in my view, it would be bloviating. I turn in my seat in the instant that her first foot crosses the threshold. She sits down. We greet each other. We open our respective menus, squeaking the plastic as the oil on our hands streaks the kitchen grease on the cover. Walrus is American. My eye is drawn to the Walrus Breakfast. I order my eggs scrambled, with wheat toast and a sausage patty.
Food is like jazz. Jazz is like a conversation. The food is like a conversation in my mouth. It is like jazz being played in my mouth. Good music can warm the soul, and good food can feed the soul, and warm the body. Slicing my eggs, I guide them to my mouth – chewing, but receiving no resistance – before swallowing. I do the same with each successive mouthful. The sausage patty, the toast now buttered.She was telling me about her week: ‘On Monday I had a banana, then I went to Woolworths, where I bought two more bananas, a can of tuna and some bread. Later I went to Uniqlo, where I bought two pairs of underwear, two pairs of socks, and some sleepwear. Later that evening I met up with A.S.L, where I drank one espresso martini, followed by three glasses of prosecco…’
Jazz was invented in America. Walrus was not, but it is preoccupied by it. Walrus may be a shallow reflection in the great puddle of America. But Australia, where we live – is it not the same? In Walrus diners can expect America. What they cannot expect is the so-to-speak grease on-the-spoon authenticity, the low-quality ingredients, and the strange clientele. Walrus is not in America, it is in Brunswick.She got up to leave, I offered to pay. As we hugged each other goodbye, she added: ‘Don’t get too down about A.S.L. She has those tendencies as I’m sure you are aware by now. The important thing is to try not to trigger them. Just stay out of her way – she wants to be good at heart. She just needs you to get out of the way sometimes.’ We stepped out of Walrus and onto Sydney Rd. She offered me an American Spirit. She was talking about a shop that she’d visited where she couldn’t figure out what they sold. ‘I guess they were selling everything.’ she said.
