Lunch at Heathrow

 by William Chill

 

A five-hour layover in London Heathrow airport, what to do?

 

I’ve had a hectic week so I didn’t mind, I could actually use the downtime. It was lunchtime so I figured I’d find a nice sit-down restaurant and decompress for a bit.

 

I needed to get away from people.

 

I found an Asian noodle joint, a bit exotic, which also meant it was a bit pricey for most people, which meant it probably would not be very crowded. Perfect. I had my curmudgeon on.

 

The hostess led me inside, the place was somewhat crowded, although still a lot better than the other alternatives. She sat me at a long wooden table across from a balding 50-something year old man. We sat there across from each other, both sensing the awkwardness.

 

He looked British. And sour. I suspected he did not want to sit across from a stranger anyone more than I did. It looked as if he had already ordered and was waiting for his food. Hopefully he was a fast eater and would leave soon enough.

 

We both sat there, trying to avoid eye contact. I went to my iphone and tried to connect to the free airport Wi-Fi to check the latest Cleveland Indians baseball scores. It was slow as hell, so I gave up.

 

A waitress arrived and sat his order down in front of him, a noodle soup plate. It looked exotic and pricey. He pulled out his iphone and took a picture of it. No! You’re not going to post it to social media!

 

A male server  approached from his right side and sat an exotic-looking fruit drink down in front of him.

 

“I asked without a straw,” he said to the server.

 

Yep, he’s an Englishman alright.

 

I imagined him on holiday in Spain wearing checkered Bermuda shorts and sunglasses that flip up and down over his prescription lenses. You know, the kind that your elementary school principal wore while observing the end of day dismissal in the bus parking lot that made a crisp snapping sound as they flipped up and down.

 

“I’m sorry, sir. Shall I bring you another?”

 

“No, there’s no point in it now, just leave it.”

 

The server attempted to remove the straw. The man waved him off. “There’s no point in it, just leave it.”

 

The man grasped the end of the straw and moved it up and down in the drink with careful precision as if he was performing a chemistry experiment.

 

Since he had the straw now, he was going to put it to good use.

 

The first waitress came over, the one who took his original order, to try and smooth things over.

 

“I’m sorry about that, sir. These drinks always come with a straw, so we have to write it on the order not to bring a straw. I had forgotten.”

 

“That’s alright, there’s no point in it now.”

 

“Here, I’ll take it off your bill.”

 

“No, just leave it as it is, there’s no point.”

 

“Ok, sir.” The waitress replied, then leaves.

 

The man began to hum to the music playing over the loudspeaker. A quick change of mood.

 

A waitress came and took my order. I told her I’d like the Pad Thai with chicken and prawns.

 

She asked if I’d like something to drink.

 

“Yes”, I told her. “I’d like the topical juice number 9.”

 

She nodded her head indicating understanding, then turned to walk away.

 

Then I added, “Oh, and without a straw, please.”

 

The man stopped his humming and looked up at me over the top of his glasses. He said nothing, but his eyes said, “Cheeky bastard.”

 

Can’t believe how someone can get so worked-up over a goddam straw.