Restaurant - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Carey checked his profile picture a fourth time. This "Greg" must be about twenty-two judging by his university jock build and thatching of sandy hair. The waiter came returned with a menu, "Just a glass of house white for now, thank you." From her seat she had a view of the entrance, only couples came and left. She fidgeted, adjusting the strap of her dress and applying another coat to her already red lips. With nothing else to do she perused the menu, regardless of what was there she'd be ordering butter chicken and pilau rice. She let herself soak in the ambient music for a few moments, wondering what the words were and drinking in the fragranced air. Carey almost jumped. From the corner of her eye she realized a portly man stood beside the table; she glanced up at his face. With his receding blonde and deep set crows feet he had be be almost fifty.
He raised his greying eyebrows and grinned like a school boy, "Carey?"
The restaurant was full. I looked around at the busy tables. An old couple eating side by side, one glass of wine each, studiously bent over their meals. A group of young women in their thirties collapsing with helpless giggles as a stern woman dining alone nearby looked on and frowned. Businessmen in their grey suits lighting up cigars. American tourists, trying to decipher the menu. A family and their teenage children. The noise level was high. The smoke level, too. But it didn’t bother me. I was used to it.
His callused skin was oddly juxtaposed to the crispness of his suit, tailored to perfection, likely in a high end London taylor's shop. His eyes had a look of long yearned for mischief beneath heavily wrinkled lids. He walked with a slight stoop, yet moved swiftly into the marbled lobby of the restaurant. He greeted the stiff maitre d' with nod and a hand shake, faltering somewhat when the greeter became mannequin-like instead of mirroring his joviality. His smile waned, then came a raucous cheer of welcome from a flower adorned long table to his right. The maitre d' visibly jumped and turned sharply in the direction of the noise, his skin a shade more pale. The old man's gnarled skin broke into his customary smile, radiating an unabashed joy. He took the hat from his mottled scalp and handed it to the server who appeared to have frozen momentarily and made his way to the table unaided. Dad, Grandpa, brother and Wing Commander had arrived; now the celebration could begin.
Book two months in advance, not the kind of place you get a table on impulse, large mullioned windows, long embroidered curtains, dark walnut tables, flowers on each table, delicate live piano music, flagstone tile floor, lounge area with embroidered couches, oval coffee tables with splendidly proportioned cabriole legs, tea served from silver trays in white teapots.