Welcome to the Dumpster Fire

"Do you have any questions about the menu?" I asked. I'm supposed to ask this rather than 'what'll you have.' To get the conversation flowing, and to make sure my table feels cared for.

"Oh, a few." The one in the suit said. "What do you recommend for a special occasion?"

"What's the occasion?"

"It's my big Five-Oh." The one in the dress' eyes darted from me to across the table, going even pinker. "We thought we'd celebrate."

"Wow, happy birthday! You look great." The lighting in here is flattering to all, but she didn't look a day over thirty-five. A joke seemed to flash between them.

"Thank you," The one in the dress said, "This place has amazing reviews, so we're pretty excited we could snag a reservation."

"You definitely came to the right place. Any other plans tonight?" No reason to stuff them with carbs and cream sauce if they're taking in a show next — they could doze off in the dark.

"Just this." The one in the suit replied, but her smile across the table promised far more. "So, what do you think? We want the best."

I leaned over to trace my path down the menu of the one in the suit. "Sounds like you're aware that our menu changes often, since it's seasonal. I'll tell you now that you want the tarte tatin — it's like a crown of apple slices submerged in their juice, caramelizing all the way through your meal. So we have to let the kitchen know you want it when I put in your order."

"It's a la mode, bunny. Do you want a scoop of ice cream to finish?" The one in the suit grinned across the table, showing the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth in a tease. So not a first date, then. I moved my finger back to the top of the menu.

"The radishes and smoked cod's roe is worth your bravery — salty, creamy, smoky, with the crisp zing of the radish. But if you want to start off in familiar territory, the panisse is exactly what fritte should be, with a crunchy exterior and a silky middle." I could feel the eyes of the one in the suit following my nail's scrape along the page. I moved to second.

"You really can't go wrong for the second course. The trout gravlax is fresh trout cured with salt, sugar, juniper and pink peppercorn. It's compressed while it cures, then we slice it thin so it dissolves in your mouth in a silken sheet. If you want something more substantial, I'm obsessed with what the kitchen can do with tagliatelle, wild mushrooms, and parsley. Savory, tender mushrooms clinging to fresh pasta and brightness from the parsley. It may be simple but it's done right.

"For your third course, I enjoy the duck. It plays with so many aspects of flavor — the richness of the duck, the sweet and sour of the honeynut squash and pomegranate, the mild bitterness of the trevise greens. It's a dish that develops and echoes back on itself as you combine the elements, like Thanksgiving. I also recommend the pork belly. It's rolled and stuffed with fennel seeds, lemon zest, and marinated spinach. The green herb sauce makes every bite soar."

The one in the suit set her menu on the table and said, "Well, bunny? What sounds good?"

The one in the dress propped her chin in her hand. "It all sounds good to me, vix."

"I agree. We'll take it all, please. Ah, and a glass of…" The one in the suit scanned over the wine list but settled on the cocktail list with an amused noise in the back of her throat, "…the Strega Nona would be perfect. Thank you."

It's pretty old school for one person to order for the table, so as I wrote down my selections on the ticket, I found myself angling toward the one in the dress. "Is there anything else?" I asked.

"We'll see." Bunny replied, "Thank you."

When I returned with the Strega Nona, Vix claimed it. It was the last thing I set in front of her for the night, other than the check.

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I didn't understand at first. When I brought out the first course plates, I set them in the center of the table. I told them to enjoy and retreated. From a distance I watched Vix lean over and pluck one of the panisse from their stack and, with a fluid tilt of her wrist, offer its tip to Bunny's parted lips.

I've eaten the food here enough times to almost consider it mundane, because it's always accessible and convenient to me. Like hot food at the bodega. I've had the panisse more times than I can count — our menu changes, but there are staples that are made from ingredients that are pretty much always sourceable. But I watched Bunny's tongue touch the stinging spot where a chunk of kosher salt dissolved on her lip and felt like something different was happening. As servers we're meant to return to the table to check in, but there's a balance to it. We don't want our table to feel like they're being rushed or scrutinized. But I found my legs carrying me to their table sooner than I'd normally wait.

"How is everything?" I asked. Bunny was nibbling down her third stick of panisse and Vix had sat back in her chair, rolling the stem of her cocktail glass in her fingers. The two of them looked up at me.

"It's exactly what you promised." Bunny answered, then finished the panisse in three wolfed bites. "Crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside. Like if a frenchy fry and hummus lived in harmony." She selected her next piece and bit down. I was a little surprised by her tenacity. The frothy rosiness of her hid quite the appetite, as focused as Vix's eyes under luxuriating lids. Vix, who did not reach for either of the final two pieces of panisse and twirled her cocktail.

I asked if they needed anything and left the table again. As I waited my other tables I saw Bunny finish the plate alone, feeding the final bite into her mouth with a lifted pinkie. I saw her suck the salt from her fingertips. Then I saw Vix push the plate of radishes and smoked cod's roe closer to Bunny.

Bunny dragged a slice of orchid-bright radish through the cod's roe and laid it on her tongue. Her eyebrows went up. The guy at the table I stood in front of said, "Can I get the salade verte without any dressing?"

My pen skidded across my pad. I blinked. "That's just a plate of lettuce. Is that okay?"

He huffed. Like I said, it's my job to make my table feel cared for, and I wasn't succeeding. My hands took down orders, my mouth shaped around 'how are you doing tonight' and 'that's our hangar steak from last week's menu,' and my eyes kept returning to the table where Bunny finished the first course. I didn't understand. Was she a food critic who needed to know how everything tasted personally to describe her experience? It's hard to tell, but I've had one or two at my table before. Someone who gets first bite of each dish like droit de signeur. But Bunny ate everything.

When I set the trout gravlax and tagliatelle plates down, I put them on Bunny's side of the table. Vix smiled up at me with teeth that flashed like sparks. "Thank you," she said, and for a moment I was a part of whatever it was, and whatever it was was delicious. My toes clenched to keep me from shifting my weight.

"Enjoy," I said. It was my role.

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Being a waiter is being a voyeur. And even so, unless we stand there and let you talk to us, we only get part of the joke that makes everyone break into laughter. Sometimes I just get the laughter. It's not a problem — a lot of the things that happen at a table in New York are not interesting to me. But leaving Bunny and Vix's table behind, knowing that what was happening there interested me, was hard. It meant I would only get snapshots from afar.

The horseradish cream dripping from Bunny's fork, caught with a scoop of that tongue. How I knew that tongue felt the slick of oil, the mouth salivated to meet the grate of salt and sugar, how the juniper bloomed up through her nose. The first bite of the tagliatelle, wrapped demurely around the fork. The last bite of the tagliatelle, speared pasta dangling wild over the tines. How I knew what Bunny was tasting, and Vix didn't. How I'd picked those plates to contrast each other, because I thought they would share. Instead my choices made sure, far past the point where Bunny must have felt full, that there would be something new to freshen her appetite. That was me. And Vix toyed with her cocktail and watched, understanding it all. Understanding me.

When I brought the third course, Bunny's face was shining. Given the choice of duck and pork belly, her fork drifted over both uncertainly. In the beginning she was leaned forward to reach the table with her fluffy skirt and the belly beneath it. Now her back rested against the banquette and she breathed shallowly. The quick, light breaths of a bunny. Vix slid her cocktail to the side and said in a low voice, "Go on. It's all good, right?"

Bunny nodded without looking up from the weave of her fork. Vix's body had bent forward as Bunny relaxed, as if that connection between them was pulled taut. Now she rested her hands on the table, gripping furrows into the tablecloth. Her eyes devoured the motion of Bunny's hand.

"Don't you want it?" Vix said, "You can have everything you want, Bunny, and more."

I should've moved on, but the spotlight of Vix's gaze, the urgency in her voice, kept me in my place. Bunny raked her lip with her teeth. "It's so much." She admitted slowly, as if it took effort to speak, "I want it but it's so much."

Vix shifted in her seat. "Do you want my help?" She asked.

"…No, not yet. I feel good." Bunny drew a purposeful breath, preparing herself.

"Go for the duck." The two of them looked up at me, as surprised to find me there as I was to have said anything. My throat clicked. "The pork belly should be last — the herb sauce and lemon zest will refresh the — unless you want to sweet notes from the duck to segue into your dessert. But apple pairs well with pork."

Vix raised her brows and looked to Bunny. She said, "Well, you heard the expert. Go for the duck."

With a sigh of release, Bunny gathered her first bite of the duck. I was far away for the second course. Now I was there on the sidelines as the light shone like gold dust on Bunny's cheeks, as she exhaled through her nose so deeply a sound ruffled in her throat, as her chewing slowed to a deliberate grind, and her eyes went velvet soft. No wonder it was all Vix needed to be satiated, to watch Bunny eat.

My throat clicked again. "Enjoy," I said automatically. Again. As if I didn't already know.

Vix lifted her hand to stop me from leaving their table. She propped her chin on her other hand. "What next, do you think?" She asked me.

"What do you mean?"

"You said the duck builds like Thanksgiving. What should she have next?" Vix's lips curled at Bunny, once again hovering her fork over the plate.

"Oh," I said. Then I said, "The squash, then the potatoes, then the greens, then back to the duck. Savory and sour to sweet to crispy to bitter and earthy, to savory again. That's the perfect bite. But —" Vix looked up at my pause. " — it's the kind of balance where the order doesn't matter. She can —" I turned back to Bunny. "— you can eat it in any order. So long as you're combining it all together, bit by bit."

Bunny nodded and, after a glance at Vix, skimmed her fork through the other elements of the plate until her next bite was a bacchanalia of flavors. It was a big bite to fit everything, and even though Bunny ducked her head to catch it, the tower of squash, potato, greens, and duck toppled into her mouth. The pomegranate aril that had glistened in the light like a ruby burst as her teeth came down. Maybe that tart punch made her breath a gasp rather than a sigh, but still that indulgent lingering took over as Bunny chewed. All the while, her head slowly tipped back until she looked up at me with those plush eyes and pomegranate lips. I watched her stretched throat pulse when she swallowed.

I clenched my fists only to feel the edge of the table bite my palms. I didn't know I'd touched their table in the first place. From a distance, it would've looked like Bunny and I were about to kiss. I let go and straightened up so abruptly the silverware shifted on the table. "Oh, pardon me." I said.

Vix hummed that amused noise she'd made at the Strega Nona. "It's no trouble. I think you were right." She said to me, "It's such a treat to have someone who knows their work. Thank you."

"Of course," I answered, checking that my pen hadn't slipped free from its pocket in my half apron. My fingers found it and shoved it down until I felt its blunt end dig into my thigh. "I'll check where the kitchen is with the tarte tatin. Anything else I can do for you right now?"

Bunny shook her head, already onto her next bites. Vix's triumphant grin was all for me. "We'll let you know." She said.

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The melting warmth of the tarte tatin stayed in my hands after I set it on the table. Bunny's drooping, fuzzy eyes widened at the size of it — enough for four people. Her hand paused over the remnants of the pork belly like a deer captivated by headlights. She made to move the pork belly to the side to make space for the tarte tatin, but stopped, blinking, when Vix's hand shot forward.

Vix lifted Bunny's fork from her fingers and collected the last of the pork belly with it. She offered it to Bunny's lips with smouldering eyes.

"Our waiter says pork pairs well with apple." She coaxed. Compelled, Bunny's mouth closed over the fork to savor to the sweet end.

As Bunny's mouth must've filled with the succulent pork, the attention of the table returned to the tarte tatin. I won't act like it's an unremarkable dish, the way I felt about the panisse after my time at the restaurant. The tarte tatin is inarguably a showstopper: a 10-inch round of flaky, bubbled pastry acting as pedestal to the promised crown of apple slices, whose perfect, soft flesh lay glossy beneath a thick caramelized syrup of their own juices, so plentiful that they seeped onto the plate beneath. Three scoops of vanilla ice cream nestled together and puddled exquisitely in the center, slow to melt due to their creamy content.

"What do you think, Bunny? Do you want it?" Vix asked.

Bunny nodded and tried to draw a deeper breath in preparation. She picked up the spoon I brought for dessert and sank it into the tarte tatin like the first step on the moon. I felt myself take the deep breath her stuffed stomach had forbidden her. Her movements were even slower, methodical and exhausted.

Vix said again, forcing my eyes away from Bunny, "Do you want my help?"

Bunny nodded again and produced, after a moment, a throaty: "Yes, please."

Vix gave a satisfied purr as Bunny laid the spoon, handle facing Vix, on the tarte tatin plate. Vix met my eyes and asked, "Will you need the table? This might take some time."

Maybe I did. But I didn't care. "No, take all the time you need. It's a special night." I replied, "Would you like your check?"

"Yes, thank you." Vix dismissed me, her attention fixed on delivering a bite to Bunny's open, waiting mouth.

Eating a dinner for two and a dessert for four was impossible. Bunny had only so much space inside of her. It became clear over the next half hour that Vix's goal was to pursue the quaking edge of that boundary. Piece by golden piece, the tarte tatin went — warm, sweet, crisp, tender, dripping cool ice cream — into Bunny, until she shook her head and raised a languid hand for mercy.

The last time I went to their table, Vix had abandoned her place to sit at Bunny's side. One of her arms crossed Bunny's shoulders, giving a bolster for her lolling head. The other arm disappeared under the tablecloth. Vix turned her face to me.

"You were as exceptional as the food, thank you." She said, "You said the menu changes seasonally?"

Bunny's eyes opened and fell on mine, deep in a content dream. I said, "It changes weekly, actually. Some appetizers and desserts stay for a few weeks, and some dishes are spins on previous offerings, but there's always something new to try. And any dish you want from this week you'd need to catch while you can — it's not guaranteed in the future."

Vix's voice thrummed. "We'll need to come back again pretty soon, then, to try it all. A big undertaking, but worth it, I think." She paused to look at Bunny and, stroking her shoulder, asked, "Can we request one of your tables when we come back?"