Café Beautiful, that’s what I call it, and I ain’t the only one. And I think maybe there should be some kinda law ‘gainst it. Like adverts that get inside your head and they make you buy shit you don’t want and don’t need, and there should be a law ‘gainst that I reckon. And the girls at Café Beautiful, they is just the best thing ‘bout the place. The coffee tastes like they burned the beans or summat, and the eggs is overcooked or under, and the toast is like wet bread. But the place is always busy, and I reckon that’s just on account of the girls.
I worked there once, not serving customers, but back a bit so I wasn’t on show. Flipping burgers on a greasy stove, and bacon too, and turning eggs on the griddle, and pancakes arranged in crooked stacks and all dripping in cheap thin maple syrup. And the girls there was told to be always smiling, and winking like there was just one big joke going on all the time, and they had to paint their lips red as strawberries, and their shoes had to be heels.
They was trained to be licking their fingers for show, and curling their hair behind their ears in a slow-motion caress, and dancing ‘tween the tables with their hips wiggling. And they blew breathless kisses ‘cross the café if they saw someone they knew and those kisses was all rehearsed in front of a mirror so that they looked just right.
And when the busy breakfast shift was done, they let those girls kick back and just look pretty. They sit out front sometimes, at the tables on the sidewalk and the sun on them like a blessing, and they put up their feet and just close their eyes like they could be sleeping. I see guys sometimes slowing their cars down as they pass, and they don’t keep their eyes on the road, and they lick their lips like they’re tasting something good.
And girls in cars do the same.
And men sweeping the street, they stop and lean on their brushes, and they just look, and they know they is looking at rainbows, and hoping beyond hope, and only wishing. And policemen on the beat, they linger, and they tip their hats and they say ‘good mornin’ ladies’ – calling ‘em ladies when they are undressing them slow with their disrespecting eyes.
Like I say, there should be a law. Because those girls has hitched up their dresses so their legs is all there, and they’ve thrown back their hair so you can see the swan-arch of their necks, and they are soaking up the sunlight, and like that they could sell sand to beach bums. I swear, they is a sight for sore and not sore eyes.
Café Beautiful, and I don’t work there no more. They got this rule see, ‘bout the girls not dating the co-workers. It ain’t good for custom, they say. And well, there’s this one girl, and she kept coming out back with me. Just for a cigarette at first, and that’s allowed, only then it was more than that. And so I got my cards, and I sit on the other side of the counter now and I drink coffee that tastes of shit, and I eat eggs that I’d rather not, and toast that ain’t like no toast at all. And I watch Milly smiling at other guys and winking at ‘em and blowing ‘em red painted kisses.
And like I said, there should be a law ‘gainst it, ‘gainst girls serving men in diners like that, and making ‘em think they is special, every goddam one of ‘em, when they is just not – and I include me in what I’m saying, cos Milly blowing me kisses ain’t nearly the same as being out back with her.
Patricia Ann McNair 
Café Beautiful, that’s what I call it, and I ain’t the only one. And I think maybe there should be some kinda law ‘gainst it. Like adverts that get inside your head and they make you buy shit you don’t want and don’t need, and there should be a law ‘gainst that I reckon. And the girls at Café Beautiful, they is just the best thing ‘bout the place. The coffee tastes like they burned the beans or summat, and the eggs is overcooked or under, and the toast is like wet bread. But the place is always busy, and I reckon that’s just on account of the girls.
I worked there once, not serving customers, but back a bit so I wasn’t on show. Flipping burgers on a greasy stove, and bacon too, and turning eggs on the griddle, and pancakes arranged in crooked stacks and all dripping in cheap thin maple syrup. And the girls there was told to be always smiling, and winking like there was just one big joke going on all the time, and they had to paint their lips red as strawberries, and their shoes had to be heels.
They was trained to be licking their fingers for show, and curling their hair behind their ears in a slow-motion caress, and dancing ‘tween the tables with their hips wiggling. And they blew breathless kisses ‘cross the café if they saw someone they knew and those kisses was all rehearsed in front of a mirror so that they looked just right.
And when the busy breakfast shift was done, they let those girls kick back and just look pretty. They sit out front sometimes, at the tables on the sidewalk and the sun on them like a blessing, and they put up their feet and just close their eyes like they could be sleeping. I see guys sometimes slowing their cars down as they pass, and they don’t keep their eyes on the road, and they lick their lips like they’re tasting something good.
And girls in cars do the same.
And men sweeping the street, they stop and lean on their brushes, and they just look, and they know they is looking at rainbows, and hoping beyond hope, and only wishing. And policemen on the beat, they linger, and they tip their hats and they say ‘good mornin’ ladies’ – calling ‘em ladies when they are undressing them slow with their disrespecting eyes.
Like I say, there should be a law. Because those girls has hitched up their dresses so their legs is all there, and they’ve thrown back their hair so you can see the swan-arch of their necks, and they are soaking up the sunlight, and like that they could sell sand to beach bums. I swear, they is a sight for sore and not sore eyes.
Café Beautiful, and I don’t work there no more. They got this rule see, ‘bout the girls not dating the co-workers. It ain’t good for custom, they say. And well, there’s this one girl, and she kept coming out back with me. Just for a cigarette at first, and that’s allowed, only then it was more than that. And so I got my cards, and I sit on the other side of the counter now and I drink coffee that tastes of shit, and I eat eggs that I’d rather not, and toast that ain’t like no toast at all. And I watch Milly smiling at other guys and winking at ‘em and blowing ‘em red painted kisses.
And like I said, there should be a law ‘gainst it, ‘gainst girls serving men in diners like that, and making ‘em think they is special, every goddam one of ‘em, when they is just not – and I include me in what I’m saying, cos Milly blowing me kisses ain’t nearly the same as being out back with her.