My waitressing experience has shown me a variety of client behavior. Overhearing Colin criticize Ella’s excellent Italian, German, and Mandarin like she was stupid was my breaking point.
Friday nights at Mélange Bistro were exciting with the smell of sizzling spices, the rhythmic clatter of cutlery, and dozens of languages spoken. I had prepared smiling and listening as the lead server to handle the chaos. Despite the congestion, I appreciated the folks and the quiet tales at their tables.
Ella and Colin were part of my routine. After six months of Friday dinners at Mélange, I recalled their initial visit, partly because Ella ordered in excellent French.
“Bonsoir,” she smiled. I want marine mussels, please.”
“Excellent choix, madame,” I said, pleased.
Her elegance captivated. Her French, Japanese, and Spanish orders were always well-pronounced. Passion accompanied knowledge. Languages and civilizations were important to her.
Colin, however, bothered me.
He was cocky, brash, and indifferent to what he didn’t comprehend. Colin continually corrected Ella’s orders, usually erroneous and rude.
He said, “Seriously, Ella,” rolling his eyes. It’s ‘moo-lays,’ not ‘moules.’ No need to sound European—just speak English.”
Ella winced and shrank. “Sorry. Just thought—”
“No, you didn’t,” he snapped. “Stop it.”
This process repeated weekly like a tragic play. Ella’s confidence waned each time. And I? Unspoken customer service rules haunted me as I stood there with a clinched jaw and a courteous grin.
This Friday night was different.
As usual, Colin was swaggering and pompous, while Ella was dimmer than the week before. But this time, they had company. Behind them was a handsome older couple. I inferred Colin’s parents from his haughty chin tilt.
I took them to their corner table and offered a warm welcome. Good evening. Can I start drinks?”
Ella smiled slightly. Please serve me pho ga.”
Colin sneered before I could react. ‘Foe gah, Ella. Jesus. Why must you constantly brag?
Ella blushed. Sorry, I didn’t mean—
“She thinks she’s clever,” Colin told his folks. “Always performing.”
His mother laughed pitifully. “Oh, honey. You needn’t strive to impress us.”
Something snapped within me.
I leaned forward and spoke Mandarin softly. “Please don’t speak rudely to your girlfriend.”
Colin looked at me bewildered. “What the hell did you say?”
Before I could respond, Ella glanced up with fire in her eyes instead of tears. “Thank you,” she murmured quietly. “This is significant to me.”
Colin staring between us. “Are you two conspiring against me? What is she saying?
“I just asked you to treat her with respect,” I said in English. “She thanked me.”
Colin reddened. Your story is fake. This is harassment!”
“Colin,” his father warned crisply.
“No! Colin yelled, “She’s embarrassing me.” Ella, are you really supporting her?
Ella sat up and spoke clearly. “Yes. She’s not humiliating you—you’re doing it yourself.”
Face twisted, Colin. “What, you think you’re better than everyone because you know phrases?”
“No,” she replied. “I deserve respect when spoken to. I believe I should quit letting you determine how little I am.”
His mother frowned. Sweetie, stop being so dramatic. Do you believe speaking many languages at dinner is excessive?
Ella faced her. Would you say the same to a classical pianist at a dinner party? A poet reciting?
“That differs—”
“Why?” Ella maintained her tone. “Because you feel uncomfortable? Because you don’t understand?
Everything was peaceful in the restaurant. Mid-bite, diners glanced toward their table.
Ella stood up, saying, “I’m tired.” “Sick of shrinking to make others feel taller. Tired of apologizing for curiosity, education, and worldliness.”
Colin ogled her. Where are you going?
“Home,” she said. “Alone.”
She smiled at me for the first time in weeks. Merci beaucoup. 谢谢你. Gracias.”
She left straight-backed and unencumbered.
Colin and his dad arrived soon after, dumbfounded.
The following Friday, I noticed a familiar person at the door while replenishing napkin trays.
Ella.
Her glow was evident. Energy, not simply appearance—though she shone with confidence. As if she had breathed after months of holding her air.
Table for one? Asking with a smile.
“Yes,” she answered. Can we talk if you’re not too busy?
I slipped into the seat across from her for a little after taking her order.
“You appear lighter,” I replied.
Softly, Ella laughed. I feel lighter. Colin and I split up the day after everything went wrong. It hurt yet felt right.”
“You make me proud.”
“Thank you. He stated I was very wrong. That no one would accept my braggery. Can you imagine? Tolerate?”
Raised eyebrow. “What did you reply?”
“I told him, ‘I don’t want someone who tolerates me. I want recognition and celebration. And I hung up.”
“Good for you!” I shine. And now?
I applied for a refugee-focused charity job, something I’ve always wanted. They require multilingual translators. Perfect for me.”
This is incredible. You’re great.”
Ella’s eyes sparkled. I forgot how much language made me happy. How alive I felt. Colin persuaded me to conceal it. You reminded me to share.”
I gently squeezed her hand across the table. “The world needs more heartfelt speakers in any language.”
She grinned. “And fewer people correct ‘gnocchi’ with ‘guh-nocky,’ right?”
You and I laughed.
Ella yelled after me in three languages as the kitchen bell sounded and I rose to return to my shift:
“Thank you. Merci. 谢谢.”
One or two words in any language may remind someone of who they are.