Riviera Restaurant and Tavern

Tuesday's special was breaded and fried Filet of Sole, two veg, mashed or roast potatoes, a cup of tea or coffee, no refills, and choice of either homemade rice pudding or green jello. Carey didn't know what flavour the green was, so he always opted for rice pudding even though he hated the texture. It felt like eating ants suspended in grimy porridge. Still for 5.95, he couldn't say no. You never leave food on your plate, that was how Carey was raised. Fifty four and his father's booming baritone plays on repeat in his memory: Eat your brussel sprouts, son. There's plenty of children starving in Africa, you think they'd leave food on their plates? They'd be licking them clean. I work my tail off in the yards so you and your sisters can have food on the table and a roof over your head. Your mother slaved all day in the kitchen to make you this meal, show some respect and eat up. You're not leaving the table until your plate is clean, you understand me? Do You Understand Me?
Carey tries to dampen down the signal, but like a shortwave in the desert, there's only static between stations. His father's invectives or the projection screen television in the tavern, playing reruns of Coronation Street four hours a night. This is what fills his head with noise. He knows the waitress is uncomfortable. Carey's sudden tics and murmurs are disconcerting to most, and although he's been eating here every Tuesday night for 8 years, he can see Theresa involuntarily bristle and avert her eyes when she hears him mutter, trying to hide her embarrassment. Still, she's kind and refills his coffee, even though he knows Chef will give her the gears. He tips her well, a Toonie under his saucer. He dreams of the day rice pudding gets subbed out for chocolate cake or apple crumble. Maybe then the chaos will disappear, or at the very least retreat to a gentle hum.