Back in May 1982 Walter Durkacz and I celebrated my 30th birthday with a luncheon at our favorite Paris cafe, which served the gourmands of Les Halles. I ordered the steack au poivre and Walter had the sole. He was a very slow eater, so I drank wine waiting for him to finish his meal.
“You want dessert?” Walter asked between a thoughtful chaw on the soft fish.
“No, I’m good.” The carafe of wine was half-full. Walter was a slow drinker too. I turned my head.
The man next to us was dining alone. His face was more than a little red. He coughed and fell forward onto the table.
I snatched his plate of duck before he could face-plant in his meal.
His head thocked the table and he sighed his last breath.
Everyone in the restaurant regarded the man; knives and forks in hand.
I felt his pulse.
There was none and I told the waiter the same in my Boston-accented French.
“Merde,” said the waiter since the dead man had yet to pay his bill.
The rest of the diners shrugged and tucked into their lunch.
“Dessert?” Walter repeated his offer.
“Creme Brulee.”
Life goes on.