People Watching

As soon as I step in, I see a lady with a dashing white eyebrow screaming, "The pot! The pot! The pot!" I do hear a piercing whistle coming from somewhere. For such a famous place, I find the absence of any star ludicrous.

A cheery "My dear baronet!" penetrates my musings. I look up as the hostess, who is wearing a silly yellow hat, approaches me. "God must have blessed our acquaintance!" Seemingly satisfied with her greeting, she escorts me to a table and then twirls to the next guest in line.

In the back, a plump little lady in tweed orders all the serving ladies, "Everyone! We must start boiling the water again!" The way she’s running around, you’d think that there were flames melting the kitchen down.

A waitstaff in an orange waistcoat brings the beverage I ordered with an "Enjoy." Curiously, next to the cream and sugar is a pipe. Wyoming-made, I note.

Someone blows their nose next to my ear, and I choke on the peanut I just ate. I hadn’t seen the lady next to me. "My sad, dead husband," she wails. Her snakeskin patterned coat really blended in with the background.

A hungover man stumbles in, eyes bloodshot. He’s wearing a shirt that makes me think he’s an enviro-rights activist. He mumbles into his phone, "I’m at the door, I can’t see ya."

He gets shoved aside as a woman who looks like she just ran a marathon, albeit with perfect yellow eye shadow, bursts through the door. She’s singing her love for Toronto.

Someone in a yellow shirt (what’s with all the yellow?) struts over. "My lady," he cries to my weeping neighbor, "You are my one and only, you are better than the best March day!" Since when was I in Elysium again?

Someone who could be the sad lady’s twin (I also didn’t notice her) gasps indignantly and attempts to...throw her? It’s getting chaotic in here, so all I hear is a reluctant "...can go by myself..."

Some dude with a bedhead cuts his way through the hubbub, directly towards me. "Tough time getting up, huh? So do I," he says with a wink.

I nod politely in response and not so subtly turn away to watch a petit man chug several pints of ale in a row. He won cool points with his white tie at least.

"Sir." Various people sporting stripes come out from the kitchen, "got a chef?" I wave to signal disinterest. As they walk away, I hear them repeat to other guests, "does your family have a chef?"

"Disgustin’," I hear. I think this new voice is talkin’ about everyone wreakin’ havoc in this cafe, but as I turn to commiserate, the person gestures towards an antler rack mounted on the wall. “Huntin’,” they say with a shake of their head.

A man sporting a Charlie Chaplin mustache bursts out of the kitchen, yelling for the head chef, presumably. It takes three tries to get his attention. But at that point, I’ve already grabbed my bag, bicycle and coat and have left that madhouse behind.