Prosatio Silban and the Plain Truth

EVEN WHEN HOSPITALITY PROFFESSIONALS ARE “off the clock,” their discourse – like that of the other trades – can’t help but revolve around their livelihoods.

“How’s this for a topic?” asked Piriforma Syndro, head chef at epicurean Pormaris’ renowned Diamond Star. She stood at the crowded rear bar in Pelvhi’s Chopping-House, that much-beloved late-night asylum for the city’s food-service folk. “What makes for the perfect dining room?”

Her question provoked appreciative laughter and variations of “ah-HA!” and “Now that is a topic!” from those gathered nearby.

“I believe I have the rightest answer,” put in Prosatio Silban, raising his glass of blue duliac. “My tables-and-chairs are always, as the saying goes, ‘in the fresh’ – and all depends on wherever my galleywagon is parked. What could be better than taking a meal surrounded by the open air, and the comedic drama of passing humanity?”

Drink-lubricated cries of “Unfair!” and “Too easy!” filled the tavern’s smoky great-room, and Allosius Tyndar, senior waiter at the peerless Canto in Sighing Diner Street, took up the task.

“Obviously, the food itself must be beyond compare,” he said.

“Obviously, the food itself must be beyond compare,” he said. “Even so, the décor and architecture must not detract from the meal, but rather enhance it. The tableware should be modest and unpretentious, of such a style as to pique but not overwhelm the senses.”

“I agree,” offered “Fats” Filio, owner of Amusing Upstart, one of the city’s newer eating establishments. “What’s important is the style of the place: is it family-friendly? does it cater to intimate trysts, or claim one signature dish as its distinction? All of these factors are important.”

“As is the music,” said Stylo Platten, restaurant critic for one of Pormaris’ popular broadsheets and politely tolerated by the assembled multitude. “It should not be too loud or intrusive, but instead serve as an accent to or augmentation of the dining experience.”

“I’m not certain that there should be any music,” put in Mygda Toriol, a waiter at the Light Touch soup-hall. “It can be difficult to hear the patrons’ orders and comments, especially if they’ve an outlander’s accent. Besides, I prefer to enjoy the spontaneous harmony of amiable conversation and clinking cutlery.”

“Truth,” said Retarc Kai, busboy at the downbeat eatery Uncle Monkey’s. “Also, when someone drops a dish, I like to immediately know where they sit. Now, I would add that the tables should not have too many place settings –”

“To make your job easier?” interrupted Stylo Platten with a smirk.

“Not at all!” snapped the busboy. “To preserve the art of quiet conversation. ‘Too many diners spoil the meal,’ you know.”

“Good point,” said Allosius Tyndar. “Also, when their meal is finished, ‘too many diners make light their tips.’ They always think the other fellow is leaving it, and, well …”

“Bah!”

The company turned toward the source of the bitterness-washed expletive: an older man sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a half-empty mug of the local green ale.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Icthio Diram, restaurateur of Pole and Line, hard by Pormaris’ far-famed fish market. “Do we know you?”

“My name is Entheal Dwarr. There is no reason you should know me, for I am the dishwasher at your Pole and Line. And I say ‘Bah.’ Just that. Bah.”

“What do you mean?” queried Allosius Tyndar.

“Dining rooms are for the scant privileged who can afford them. Your talk about them only shows your disdain for people like me.”

“How dare you!” exclaimed “Fats” Filio.

“How dare you!” exclaimed “Fats” Filio. “We give of ourselves to the dining public every day, often at great expense, to bring them joy. What do you know about it?”

“I know this,” replied Entheal Dwarr. “Were it not for me, and others like me, you’d have naught to eat upon, and no living, either. D’you think I work to bring joy? No. It’s a job. One that I ply in order to eat, and to sleep indoors. Try slopping through half-eaten fish plates some hot night, and your self-satisfied altruism will wear off pretty quickly.”

Prosatio Silban raised a conciliatory hand. “There is much in what you say, friend,” he said. “Job or career, it is easy to justify – and even enjoy! – one’s work while the coin comes in. But when it doesn’t, or when it goes out as or more quickly, that’s an entirely different matter.”

The dishwasher sipped at his emerald brew. “That’s the first truth I’ve heard here tonight.”

“It is but one truth among many,” Prosatio Silban said. “I might add that, were it not for the Sacreantal privy crews making clean this island-city’s surrounding waters, we’d all be out of business. There is not one misplaced person or thing in the vast divine dance between the All-Mother and the All-Limiter, between Life and Time. We all need each other – and we need you just as much as you need us.”

An embarrassed silence fell, at last broken by Pelvhi, who had been listening from her perch behind the long mahogany bar. “Last call,” she announced in her brassy voice.

Icthio Diram cleared his throat. “I’ll buy the final round,” he said, and turned a sheepish face to the dishwasher. “Entheal Dwarr, what will you?”

“If you’re buying,” the dishwasher replied, “I’ll have another green ale.”

“Nothing more?” prompted Prosatio Silban. “No duliac, no date brandy?”

Entheal Dwarr met the cook-errant’s eyes. “I have found it best,” he said, “to stick with what one knows.”

(If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. And if you want more of them, in two easy-to-read packages, here are the first and second e-books. Enjoy!)