The Machine is “Fucked Up”

The Machine is "Fucked Up" / Rebeca Monzo
Rebeca Monzo, Translator: Unstated

Last Sunday we had to go out to attend to some matters, among them to
collect a bit of money from the sale of some work. Another was to see a
poster announcing a line of cosmetic products whose model is the
daughter of a very dear friend of mine, and also one of my students.

This caused us to be a bit late, so we decided to have lunch at a very
famous restaurant, which is located in the central commercial district
on the lower floors of the Focsa building, where the posters we had gone
to see were being displayed.Café TV is a large and comfortable place,
whose decor has some something to do with television on my planet. Its
walls are filled with photos of our most famous entertainers. Just past
the entrance I noticed a sign that said taking photos was not allowed
inside the restaurant, which I found strange considering that the people
who go to these places, especially tourists, generally want to have some
token remembrance of having been there.

A young man with the face of an angel came to wait on us. He very
politely handed us the menus and a little while later came back to ask
if he could take our order. He returned again and, with utmost
pleasantness and perfect manners, brought us the beers we had ordered.
We noticed that almost all the waiters were very young, possibly recent
graduates new to this field.

The young man in question would then successively come and go, asking us
if everything was alright, if we would like something else… in other
words, everything one would expect from someone in his position. And
always with his left arm behind his back, as they teach them in culinary
school.

The food was excellent and reasonably price, too. Well-prepared and
beautifully presented. Remember that these State-owned places, which
charge in hard currency, now face strong competition from the private
sector.

Finally satisfied, we decided to crown this very pleasant meal with the
usual and indispensable cup of coffee. We motioned to the young man with
the face of an angel, who immediately responded to our call. We
expressed our satisfaction, declined the usual dessert, but asked if he
could bring us two espressos and the check. Imagine our surprise when,in
his very proper voice,he told us sadly, "I am very sorry, but the
machine is fucked up."

We left there stifling our laughter and noting that here was one of the
differences between State-run restaurants and private ones. We also
thought that the country itself is really a lot like the coffee machine.

November 2 2012

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