I’m transported back to my waitressing days in college. The Noodle House, nestled in the corner of a shopping center on Convoy Street in San Diego. There was Tom, the regular who routinely sat at the back table at exactly 12pm. I’d scribble down his same yaki udon order as soon as he set his hat down.
I witnessed a few awkward and nervous (and dare I say hopeful?) first date conversations. And one dramatic breakup where a woman stormed out, leaving a spilled bowl of rice in her wake and an ex who simply shrugged at me.
There was a middle-aged, well-dressed woman who came in every Wed at 1:30pm and ordered enough food to cover the entire table. She’d consume it all while reading a romance novel, then would quietly excuse herself to purge in the bathroom. We exchanged polite smiles, but underneath I could feel the hell and shame she was living with.
That little restaurant contained it all- loneliness, sadness, rage, mundanity, celebration, and love. Just as the world can simultaneously hold deep pain and dissonance and horror while also containing tenderness and compassion and hope.
Sometimes I feel I’m back in that tiny restaurant- collecting orders, serving food, and bussing tables. Doing my best, moment by moment. Pausing when the door chime rings, not knowing what enters. But still looking up and greeting whatever is showing up with curiosity and openness. “Welcome in. Any table is fine.”