Restaurant
Restaurant; trattoria; tapas-bar;
weinstuben; sushi; cafeteria; eaterie; drive-by; gastro-pub…
what’s in a name? A meal by any other name
would smell as good…
In 1765, M. Boulanger (well named) , a humble
soup-vendor, opened an establishment,
whose soups and broths he rightly called
‘restaurant’, for they were restorative…
Watch this old French film: its very flickering
and jerking seems to give it life: waiters
in their long aprons, whisk in and out
to serve these terrace tables which we’re watching
as that accordeon wheezes, or
the barrel-organ evocatively, endlessly,
rolls out its sentiments..
black berets; scarves; thoughtful Gauloise smoke;
the girls, neat hair; that simple chic
that rich and poor Parisiennes seem alike to share;
this contented man, almost a stereotype
(and yet, he lives a life..) , rather overweight,
has evidently just emptied his plate,
lights his cigar; complacent? Or,
in so civilised a measure,
restored to his former self?
This pair of lovers, evidently
having had a tiff, their coffees yet undrunk,
talk into each other’s pleadfire eyes,
reaching in them for a heart;
ah, now she stretches out her hand
across the table to seek his;
the accordeon plays its triumphant banality:
their love, restored..
See there, at the furthest table,
that heavy, bereted, pipe-smoking man
who writes intensely; looks up briefly;
curtly indicates to that young girl
to sit with him, but not to interrupt:
isn’t that face familiar, at this Left Bank table?
Is he restoring a familiar world
to sing the barrel-organ’s tune;
or looking into a nothingness,
a being, a becoming, which will
in time, shatter all café-table minds,
steal waiters from their life of service,
yield Calais’s burghers to Hamburg’s faster food? …
or will the world read; worship for a space;
and then, from black-clad existentialness,
restore itself to brighter mental dress?
Café tables, open to the warm Spring air:
so old a tune, perhaps; but love is there..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
Dubrovnik 1972.
Dubrovnik seemed
a second home,
and you, in a street
cafe, sat drinking coffee,
with that book on
Schopenhauer open
on the table, a cigarette
smoking in an ashtray
unattended, thinking
of the girl in the hotel
restaurant the night
before, the waitress
who smiled at you as
she served and went
by your table, and your
brother said, I don't
fancy yours much,
indicating with a nod
of head, another
waitress over by a
nearby table, plump
and spotted, wearing
a scowl instead of a
smile, and all the while,
he eyeing, as young
men do the beauty
that had caught your
eye going by, but all is
fair in love, so men
have said, so picking
up the book on
Schopenhauer, and
further reading,
holding the cigarette
between the fingers
of the hand not
turning pages, you
inhaled with deep
concentration the
smoke and words
spread across the
page, written by a
philosopher of a
foreign tongue
and different age.
poem by Terry Collett
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Cafe Prague.
Cream coloured coffee
And hot buttered toast
August sunshine
A packet of cigarettes
Talks on love and life
Friends and strangers all together
Days of summer
Seated on outside chairs
Tears and laughter
Mixed in the air
Of the perfect day just us and them
Cafe pavements
The world at view
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Used coffee cups
And ashtrays too
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Trendy young girls
And the wannabe author
Auster, Adams and Mr. Salinger
Days of dreaming
The perfect film
In view for all to see
Hello, hello
So good to see you
Was it twelve?
Or maybe it was two
I’ll sit and wait
And think of you
Cafe pavements
For me and you
Pairs, Rome and cafe Prague
Dirty spoons and knives
And glasses too
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Teacups and Earl grey
And ice cream sundaes
Black and white life
In full technicolour
Light my cigarette
And I’ll listen all day
Sunshine days
Storm clouds - away
The table over there
Just a smiling man
For today - all alone
Waiting his time
Cafe pavements
The world today
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Beautiful Ladies
And business gents
Paris, Rome and Cafe Prague
Student cameras
And picture painting
Hollywood lifestyle
In the common street
Brando, Dean and Al Pacino
Next to you and me
See you later
Maybe tomorrow
Give me a ring
And we’ll make a date
I’ll sit and think
And wait for you
Cafe pavements
For meetings and lunch
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Perfect tables
And used up chairs
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
poem by Patrick Sant
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Waitresses
At a restaurant there are young girls
playing waitress
and with firm breasts
and long legs
sticking out of
short dresses,
trying to catch
anyone’s eye
They stand and talk together
near to entrances
and bend low over tables,
while they serve orders
in a way that men can see
their womanly curves better.
I wonder where
all their young girl innocence went,
while one stand at my table
with big eyes
and smiles as if
the sun sparkles in her teeth
and she looks shameless
inviting at me
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Greedy Cat at the Cafe.
He sits at the corner table
with not a fur out of place,
delicately he eats with a well-manicured claw,
then, overwhelmed by the delicious smell - and taste,
shovels mouthful after mouthful in with his paw.
He greedy comes to the Cafe everyday
for breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea,
Gets served by Chris and Morgan,
two lovely people who, to please their customers
go out of their way.
The Cafe but had no name,
a catchy title none could think of,
But then the cat with the appetite so greedy,
said 'why not name it after me? '
'I always come here everyday,
and the freshest food you go out of the way to serve,
It would do me the greatest honour
if you named it The Greedy Cat Cafe'
So the cafe at last had a name,
'The Greedy Cat' it's now called,
Still everyday there go's that greedy cat,
Because of the food -
and Chris and Morgan's service with a smile -
he could never get bored.
02/01/06.
Eating Together
I know my friend is going,
though she still sits there
across from me in the restaurant,
and leans over the table to dip
her bread in the oil on my plate; I know
how thick her hair used to be,
and what it takes for her to discard
her man’s cap partway through our meal,
to look straight at the young waiter
and smile when he asks
how we are liking it. She eats
as though starving—chicken, dolmata,
the buttery flakes of filo—
and what’s killing her
eats, too. I watch her lift
a glistening black olive and peel
the meat from the pit, watch
her fine long fingers, and her face,
puffy from medication. She lowers
her eyes to the food, pretending
not to know what I know. She’s going.
And we go on eating.
poem by Kim Addonizio
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Food On My Table
Come and see the food on my table,
For it is prepared for you and me;
And, i am waiting for you in the room of my love.
Life is full of surprises and i want to show you my love,
And here comes the sun of the morning to touch your heart;
For, it is right for you to be beside me at this table.
The food on my table,
As soon as you receive my letter means that i love you;
For life is full of surprises and i want your love,
So come and let us share this food on my table.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Moonbeam Romance
The airy garden’s views
The moonlight on the pews
The static in the air
The honey in your hair
The flush on your cheeks
Our love has peaked
The satin on your skin
Surrounded by our kin
If they had ever known
About the love now being shown
Would they have let it be?
Would they let you be with me?
Flowered scents in the sky
As with hope you threaten a cry
A steadily droning, familiar tune
Accent the beams from a romantic moon
The white on your dress
The black on the terrace
Escorted by a man
Who’ll give me your hand
Then allow us to run
Onward to a morning sun
A steadily droning, familiar tune
Accent the beams from a romantic moon
As out called are our names
As you exchange yours for mine
Together we’re joined tightly twined
Tightly by love
A steadily droning and familiar tune
Accent the beams from our romantic moon
As I carry us forward
Into our new life
Me as your husband
And you as my wife
poem by Timothy Weiermann
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Pizzeria
I was serving Pizza to the tables
A Restaurant in Venice, Italy.
An old man came in a Gondola with a pipe in his mouth.
I greeted him and he ordered a dish.
I said; 'You resembled Signor Alberto Moravia.
'If I am not mistaken the movie 'A Ghost at noon or Contempt', filmed by Jean-Luc Godard, is that your novel? '
After the meal he just smiled and gave his name card and left the Restaurant leaving all his change on the table.
As soon as I woke up early in the morning
I grumbled with my wife about the name card.
Then she jumped at me and cried; 'You Rasputin must be having a date with a tart? '
I just kept quiet and thought of my strange dream.
* I remember in my school days our film society arranged an Italian film festival, slightly come to my mind some film cut-outs of Jean-Luc Godard & Vittorio De Sica.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Still-life
Through the open French window the warm sun
Lights up the polished breakfast-table, laid
Round a bowl of crimson roses, for one -
A service of Worcester porcelain, arrayed
Near it a melon, peaches, figs, small hot
Rolls in a napkin, fairy rack of toast,
Butter in ice, high silver coffee-pot,
And, heaped on a salver, the morning's post.
She comes over the lawn, the young heiress,
From her early walk in her garden-wood,
Feeling that life's a table set to bless
Her delicate desires with all that's good.
That even the unopened future lies
Like a love-letter, full of sweet surprise.
poem by Elizabeth Daryush
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Good News
Hes watching the girls on the dance floor
Hes watching the light in her hair
Hes praying that loves gonna come soon
Theres a sweet smell of hope in the air
Just another boy from a steel town
With the flash of the mill in his eye
He dont move for hip cool or fashion
But he knows where the deepest one lies
And hed love to be warm
And hed love to love you
So give him some good news
All the cards on the table
But dont look that man in the eye
Say a prayer for the dealer
And kiss your old life goodbye
Go to church light a candle
But dont lose your head for gods sake
Why is my heart beating faster
Oh why do my hands start to shake
cos hed love to be warm
And hed love to love you
So give him some good news
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sabbath
Early in the morning
they sit rather proper in the benches
and sing out joyously
and read the Word
and rolls of notes
are in the offering plate.
Sometimes I see them look
at people in the street,
as if they are a little beneath them
and circle around
a blind beggar.
Dressed in church suits
and designer dresses
I see them in the cafe,
the chain store,
restaurant
and even at the movies.
They are buying bread and milk,
sometimes a bottle of wine
and husband and wife
and at times
all of their children with them
are peacefully
going through the shops
or wait for tickets
in a row.
Every thing happens
as if they do not have
another time
for all of these things
and in the restaurant
jokes are told
that even people
at other tables can hear
and I wonder where and why
man has lost
his respect for God
and of His day.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ignored. (a Seagull Story)
Ignored. (A seagull story)
At the seaside restaurant it was busy everyone was eating lobsters,
I tried to catch the waiters’ eye. I was ignored and got the feeling
that I was Invisible, or that I was so small that my head didn’t reached
over the table. A seagull landed on my table a beautiful bird,
yellow beak and feet, plumage snowy white its wings light grey/blue
and its eyes were green; it also had the aroma of the Atlantic Ocean.
Waiter came, looked at the bird asked what it wanted, lobster, I said
when the dish came I gave it to the bird. Got up, left and no one tried
to stop me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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An Old Man
At the noisy end of the cafe, head bent
over the table, an old man sits alone,
a newspaper in front of him.
And in the miserable banality of old age
he thinks how little he enjoyed the years
when he had strength, eloquence, and looks.
He knows he's aged a lot: he sees it, feels it.
Yet it seems he was young just yesterday.
So brief an interval, so brief.
And he thinks of Prudence, how it fooled him,
how he always believed - what madness -
that cheat who said: "Tomorrow. You have plenty of time."
He remembers impulses bridled, the joy
he sacrificed. Every chance he lost
now mocks his senseless caution.
But so much thinking, so much remembering
makes the old man dizzy. He falls asleep,
his head resting on the cafe table.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Young Lovers
I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee.
At a nearby table, two lovers are kissing and making up,
but then after their last kiss they decided to disconnect
to take a deep drag from their shared cigarette
and to take a sip from their cooling coffee cup.
Placing the cigarette in the ash tray they cuddled back together
fitting like a glove with their arms around each other
totally preoccupied, giving no one else a second look.
After several minutes of holding, kissing and whispering,
and the occasional passionate tongue in mouth sucking
it looked as though they were here for the rest of the day.
Suddenly her chair flew backwards, as she quickly stood up
rocking the table, which spilled the coffee from their cups
and the ashtray to hit the floor, as she pushed him away.
She then slapped his face and shouted at him in anger,
but he sat calm and collected, and said that he loved her,
and she had misunderstood what he was trying to say.
With her hot temper cooling she decided to sit back down
and asked him a question, which caused her face to frown,
as he explained she dragged the chair closer to him again.
Picking up the fallen ashtray she listened to what he said
whilst others in the Café were drinking and being fed,
and outside it persistently poured with torrential rain.
She ordered two fresh coffees, with a deep sigh of regret
while he lit up another blue tipped cigarette,
which they both drew upon until none remained.
He held out his hands as they looked into each other’s eyes,
with a smile she touched his finger, as though to apologise
then dragged her chair closer and began kissing again.
I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee
watching people fall out who later make up,
and it’s by no means unusual to see in this busy place
a few exchanged words followed by a slap across the face
and then a kiss and make up, over a fresh coffee cup.
poem by Orlando Belo
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A Table For Two!
Flash of dream overcome me
as I took slumber one night
I saw a romantic setting
lies a set of table for two
A bouquet of red roses
decorate at the center
where a bottle of red wine
completes the table for two
I saw you entered the haven
dressed in rainbow colored suit
your face so pretty with a smile
as we kissed at the table for two
Mesmerized by your countenance
I was filled with romantic stance
as we danced to the tune of love
such so divine at the table for two
Awaken at height of joy
I am filled with inspiration
as today it becomes a reality
a table for two on Valentines day
poem by Marvin Brato Sr
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San Pedro de Alcantara
[An orange on the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet gift of the present
Freshness of the night
Warmth of my life
- 'Alicante', Jacques Prevert]
Clothes strewn on the table
Juice stains the floor board
He rises above you
You journey beneath him
I watch from the window
Cold in the night
Lemon tea on the dresser
Seed of pomegranite
Adorning your belly
As he falls above you
You draw down his kisses
Warm essence of life
Stranded at the station
In the cold of the morning
My bed for your sleeping
The rug for your dress
In the warmth of awakening
Dawn your caress
Lemons on the table
You make up by the window
I lie in my bed
Unable to watch you
The night steals the freshness
The gift that you left
Now I lie beside you
Emptiness on the table
Your hem in my fingers
The gift a deliverance
Your presence a memory
Warmth of the past.
poem by Frank Bana
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Flies In Face Challenges
a fresh start a fat check is window to new worlds
man motives material moves flies in face challenges spies
opportunities buildings iconic represent world desires
global aspirations are a meal table set with room temperature wine
most citizens drink tea coffee eat at tables below the salt
at the king’s high table swords are still crossed with empire intent
poem by Terence George Craddock
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After A Morning Quarrel
After a morning quarrel with his wife
A husband has got a terrible life.
After work, coming back home,
He finds a warning syndrome.
It’s a note lying on the table:
Honey, I think you are able to heat up the food,
Today I am in a bad mood,
So, to cheer me up I went to my friend
To watch the film with a happy end.
The food is already on the stove.
The stove is in the restaurant The Fat Duck.
I wish you a good luck!
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Table
Who is sitting at our table
In our favourite restaurant.
Looking into each others eyes
While chatter smothers
Loving sighs.
As she holds his hand to squeeze
Under the table.
Will our ghosts drift on the breeze
Out of the window
Through the trees.
To be lost forever
Like a heartbeat
In dark streets
To pass away
Like loving nights on satin sheets.
Who sits at your table
Where candlelight
Lit your smile.
And we drank red wine in style.
To taste the sweetness
On your lips
The fruit of love
Minus the pips.
All out plans
We'd always discuss.
You would always make a fuss
About what you would wear
On our wedding day.
At that table
Our guest of fate did sit.
But didn't rest,
Couldn't stay.
Leaving me alone in twilight meadow
Like one last flower
To sway.
poem by Kevin East
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My Mom Sets the Table
Night after night my mom sets the table
full of joy she passes her hand over the green fleat
like dishes she lays her chips down
they her finest china carefully stacked
her drink is the insurance bet
night after night 21 meals are servered
6 people share the meal with her
we her family eat alone
yet night after night my mom sets the table
the table of broken dreams and poisoned meals
night after night she countinues to eat
untill is consumed
Night after night my mom sets the table
night after night we her family shallow the bitter meal she makes
Night after night my mom sets the table
poem by Vincent Armone
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