Mr. Vale glides to the front of the café like he's on invisible roller skates. I follow behind like a nervous duckling trying to keep up with its mother.
"Good evening," Mr. Vale says, his warm voice cutting through the noise of the celebrating group. "Do you have a reservation?"
A woman near the front, already flushed with excitement, beams at him. "No, sorry! We just finished a huge project today, so we're celebrating!"
"Congratulations on your accomplishment," Mr. Vale responds with genuine warmth, as if he's personally invested in their success. "Please, right this way."
What happens next can only be described as furniture choreography. Mr. Vale moves through the café with purposeful efficiency, pulling tables together with smooth precision that makes it look effortless. In less than a minute, he's created a long banquet-style setup that accommodates all fifteen people comfortably.
I'm still processing this architectural miracle when Mr. Vale turns to the group with that same welcoming smile.
"Please take your time looking over the menu," he says smoothly, producing menus from seemingly nowhere and distributing them with practiced ease. "Don't hesitate to call me if you have questions. I'll return momentarily to take your orders."
While he's speaking, I spring into action, or what I think is action but probably looks more like frantic scurrying. I grab an armful of glasses from the service station and start filling them with water, moving around the combined tables and placing them in front of each guest.
The first few go fine. Then I realize I'm running out of hands and trying to carry too many glasses at once. Suddenly I'm playing a very stressful game of "don't spill water on the celebrating people."
By some miracle, I manage to get everyone watered without dousing anyone.
But that sense of calm I felt earlier, that meditative flow, that peaceful rhythm, evaporates like morning dew under a blowtorch. Gone. Reduced to atoms. Replaced entirely by poorly-concealed panic.
Mr. Vale still moves with purpose, grace, and elegance, like he's performing a ballet. I, on the other hand, am rushing around like a caffeinated squirrel, trying desperately to keep up with the sudden influx of work.
"Adam," Mr. Vale says quietly as we pass each other near the service station, "remember to breathe. Pace yourself."
Right. Breathing. That thing humans need to do to survive. Good reminder.
I take a breath and try to slow down, but it's hard when your brain is screaming that everything needs to be done RIGHT NOW.
The next hour is a blur of controlled chaos. Well, controlled on Mr. Vale's end. On my end, it's just chaos.
I bring water to the wrong table. Twice.
I forget which couple ordered extra napkins and have to do an awkward round of "Was it you guys? No? How about you?" until I find them.
I nearly collide with Mr. Vale while carrying a tray of dirty dishes, only avoiding disaster because he smoothly sidesteps at the last second like he has eyes in the back of his head.
"Watch your surroundings, Adam," he says calmly as he glides past. "Always know where others are in your space."
By 7 PM, I'm starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, I'm getting the hang of things again. The initial rush has calmed slightly, and I'm clearing a table that just finished their main course, carefully stacking plates on my forearm like Mr. Vale showed me yesterday.
Stack from larger to smaller. Keep them balanced. Don't let them clink—
And that's when my arm decides that actually, it's tired of holding things.
The slight shift in weight throws off my balance. I overcorrect. The top plate slides.
I watch in slow-motion horror as it tumbles off the stack, arcs through the air with the grace of a drunk seagull, and shatters against the floor with a sound that might as well be a nuclear explosion in the quiet café.
CRASH.
Conversations stop mid-sentence. Heads swivel in my direction. My face immediately erupts into what I'm certain is the deepest, most mortifying shade of red ever achieved by a human being. I've transcended normal embarrassment and entered some kind of higher plane of humiliation.
And then, like a guardian angel who specializes in damage control, Mr. Vale appears beside me.
I don't know how he does it. One second he's across the café, the next he's at my side, his expression calm and reassuring despite the disaster I've just created.
"It's okay, Adam," he says quietly, his voice cutting through my rising panic. "These things happen. Please bring the other plates you're holding to the kitchen." He gestures toward my arm, where I'm clutching the remaining dishes like they're life preservers. "Take a moment to breathe and adjust your outfit before coming back out."
I nod, still red as a tomato, and scurry to the kitchen with my remaining plates. The kitchen staff glance up as I enter. I'm bracing myself for judgment or teasing, but the middle-aged woman from earlier just gives me a sympathetic smile.
"First day jitters?" she asks kindly.
"Something like that," I manage.
I set the plates down by the washing station with exaggerated care, like they might explode if I'm not gentle enough. Then I lean against the wall and take the deepest breath of my entire life. My hands are shaking slightly. My heart is doing its best impression of a drum solo. And I'm pretty sure I've sweated through my undershirt.
Get it together. It's just a plate. Plates break. It's fine. You're fine. Everything is fine.
I don't believe a single word of that internal pep talk, but I retuck my dress shirt, straighten my bow tie, and force myself to walk back out into the dining area with as much dignity as I can muster.
Which, to be clear, is not much.
Mr. Vale has somehow already cleaned everything up. The floor is spotless, the broken shards gone, and the guests have all returned to their conversations like nothing happened. The background jazz has reclaimed the space, and it's as if my public humiliation never occurred.
I still feel flustered, though. That crushing weight of having screwed up in front of everyone hasn't left. It sits in my chest like a stone.
"Ready?" Mr. Vale asks as I approach. There's no judgment in his tone. Just a simple question.
"Yeah," I say, trying to inject some confidence I absolutely don't feel into my voice. "Ready."
"Good. Table seven needs their water refilled."
I return to the service station, grab another water pitcher, and try to fall back into the rhythm. But I'm rattled now, second-guessing every movement, overthinking every step.
Twenty minutes later, I'm approaching a two-top near the window. The guy sitting there has clearly finished his appetizer, the plate is pushed toward the edge of the table, fork and knife resting on it in what I thought was the universal sign for "I'm done."
"Excuse me, sir, may I—"
"What the hell are you doing?"
I freeze, my hand already on the edge of his plate.
The guy's looking at me like I just announced I'm about to set his table on fire. His companion, a beautiful woman who's clearly on some kind of date with him, looks equally startled.
"I... I was just clearing your—"
"I wasn't done with that!" he snaps, and there's an edge to his voice that makes me want to sink into the floor. "Do you just grab people's food while they're eating?"
"I'm sorry, I thought—"
"You thought wrong." He pulls the plate back toward him with unnecessary force. "And you just interrupted our conversation. Do you have any idea how rude that is?"
The woman shifts uncomfortably, looking anywhere except at me or the guy. Second date, maybe? First? Whatever it is, it's clearly not going as smoothly as he hoped, and I just gave him an outlet for his stress.
"I apologize, sir. I didn't mean to—"
"Clearly you didn't mean to do your job correctly," he continues. Wow, okay, we're really going for it now. "Is this how they train people here? Just grab whatever you want whenever you feel like it?"
"I truly apologize—"
"You already said that." He's fully turned toward me now, his face flushed. The woman is studying her napkin like it contains the secrets of the universe. "Maybe try actually waiting for someone to finish before—"
"Pardon the interruption."
Mr. Vale materializes beside the table like a well-dressed ghost, and the temperature of the conversation immediately shifts. There's something about his presence, the way he stands, the calm authority in his voice, that commands attention.
"I couldn't help but overhear," he continues, his tone perfectly pleasant, perfectly polite, with just the barest hint of steel underneath. "Please allow me to extend my sincerest apologies for the confusion. Adam is new to our staff, and he's still learning our service protocols."
He turns slightly toward me, his expression warm but his eyes conveying a clear message: Let me handle this.
I step back, grateful to escape the spotlight.
"I assure you this was an honest mistake," Mr. Vale continues, returning his attention to the table. "Adam saw that your plate was positioned away from you with your utensils arranged in a finished position, which are typically indicators that a diner has completed their course. However, I understand that assumptions should never be made, and I take full responsibility for not having supervised him more closely during his training."
The guy's bluster deflates slightly. It's hard to stay angry at someone who's being this professionally courteous.
"Additionally," Mr. Vale adds, "please allow me to offer you a complimentary dessert this evening, with my personal assurance that the remainder of your meal will be entirely undisturbed until you explicitly indicate you've finished."
The woman finally looks up, a small smile playing at her lips. The guy shifts in his seat.
"Well," he says, some of the heat leaving his voice. "I appreciate that. Thank you."
"Not at all. We pride ourselves on providing excellent service, and we clearly fell short of that standard this evening. Please, take your time with your meal. I'll check back personally when you're ready for your next course."
Mr. Vale gives a small, respectful nod, the kind of gesture that somehow conveys both humility and dignity, then turns and walks toward the back of the café.
I follow, feeling like a scolded puppy trailing after its owner.
When we're out of earshot, Mr. Vale doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, quietly: "Take a breath. Go to the staff room. Collect yourself."
"I'm sorry, I didn't—"
"Adam." His tone is gentle but firm. "It's your first day. Mistakes are expected. What matters is how you handle them. Go. Take a moment. I'll manage the floor."
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else, and flee.
Back in the staff room, I lean against the door and seriously consider just staying here forever. Maybe I can live in this small, impeccably organized space. I'll eat the spare uniforms for sustenance. It'll be fine.
You know what? I think, staring at my reflection in the small mirror. Maybe crying is a valid response to this situation.
But then I remember Mr. Vale's words from yesterday. "Your posture tells a story, whether you intend it or not."
If I walk back out there looking defeated, that's the story I'll be telling. That I'm beaten. That I can't handle this.
And you know what? Maybe I can't handle this. But I at least owe it to Mr. Vale, and to myself, to try.
I straighten my shirt again. Fix my bow tie. Take another deep breath.
Then I walk back out.