Continental
Breakfast
by Charlie
Britten
One slice of
water melon remains on the breakfast buffet and I
can see Mrs America eyeing it up. What’s she
waiting for? Oh. What a pity! No serving
spoons. Should I trot over and give her one like
a good little waitress?
But the Polish
family must have had it all, judging by the
plates in front of them, of green rind with
trails of pink watery juice. They’re on to
the egg now, slimy, buttercup-coloured lumps
tumbling off their forks. Good thing they
didn’t see Chef mixing the powder and water
this morning. Last night I made them order dinner
in German.
Mrs America
tips the coffee-pot backwards, forwards, sideways,
but still it refuses to yield more than a few
tepid drips of dirty brown water. Press the
button at the top, dear!
Now she
requests help from Mr and Mrs Brit, them with the
white flabby thighs and crumpled shorts which
haven’t seen daylight, or even the outside
of the wardrobe, these last twelve months. They
look at the coffee-pot momentarily and shake
their heads, then carry on thumbing through the
teabags in a frantic search for anything which
isn't fruit or herbal.
Mr Pole pushes
back his chair and lights a cigarette.
“Hey,
where’re you guys from?” asks Mrs
America, setting her glass of water down on the
next table.
“Krakow.”
“Uh-huh.
That’d be Krakow, Nebraska?”
Unable to
think of a suitable answer, he gets up and orders
a beer from the bar.
Mr and Miss
Germany dunk their frankfurters in red tomato
ketchup and yellow mustard then eat them straight
off the tablecloth. At least I don’t do the
laundry round here.
Mrs Brit has
slipped two rolls and three packs of butter into
her handbag. I saw her do it. And Mr
Brit has a banana in one pocket and two
nectarines in the other, like misplaced and
divided genitals.
Next week the
hotel is booked for a conference of businessmen
from our own country. And that’s my
idea of real Hell.
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