A Table for One

Mia walked into the small restaurant just before nine. The dining room was almost empty. A waiter with a white apron and tired eyes pointed at a corner table.

Mia gik ind i den lille restaurant lige før klokken ni. Spisesalen var næsten tom. En tjener med hvidt forklæde og trætte øjne pegede på et hjørnebord.

"Just one?" he asked. Mia nodded. She always traveled alone, and she always felt a little nervous ordering in a new language. The menu was on a single sheet of paper, handwritten.

"Bare én?" spurgte han. Mia nikkede. Hun rejste altid alene, og hun følte sig altid lidt nervøs ved at bestille på et nyt sprog. Menukortet var på et enkelt stykke papir, skrevet i hånden.

She pointed at a word she did not understand. The waiter smiled for the first time. "Is the special of the day," he said in slow English. "My grandmother's recipe. Try it. If you don't like it, I bring something else."

Hun pegede på et ord, hun ikke forstod. Tjeneren smilede for første gang. "Det er dagens ret," sagde han på langsomt engelsk. "Min bedstemors opskrift. Prøv den. Hvis du ikke kan lide den, henter jeg noget andet."

The food arrived in a heavy clay bowl. Hot, garlicky, full of small pieces of bread. Mia took a careful first spoonful and looked up. The waiter was watching from the bar with his arms crossed.

Maden kom i en tung lerskål. Varm, hvidløgsfyldt, fuld af små brødstykker. Mia tog en forsigtig første skefuld og så op. Tjeneren stod ved baren og iagttog hende med armene over kors.

She gave him a thumbs up. He laughed, walked over, and refilled her glass. "Good," he said. "Tomorrow you come back and I tell you what's in it."

Hun gav ham en tommelfinger op. Han grinede, gik hen til hende og fyldte hendes glas op igen. "Godt," sagde han. "I morgen kommer du tilbage, og så fortæller jeg dig, hvad der er i den."