Theo
Iam never doingtable service again.
It seemed like a great idea at first—authentic Viennese coffeehouse experience, all that nonsense—but now, as I sprint between the counter and the floor, I can confidently say it was the worst business decision I have ever made.
Even with two waiters handling most of the tables and Klaus, my Austrian pastry chef, making sure the vitrine is constantly stocked with freshApfelstrudelandSachertorte, I am completely rushed off my feet.
And to make matters worse, I have a tiny wildcard running loose.
“Daddy!”
I barely have time to register the small blur of movement before my daughter, Lucy, flings herself behind the counter again.
I let out a groan. “Ladybug, we talked about this.”
She grins up at me, completely unbothered. “I’m bored.”
Of course, she is. I had tried so hard to keep her entertained—set her up at a table near the counter with colouring books, snacks, even my phone—but five-year-olds don’t do patience. Especially my five-year-old.
“Lu, I need you to sit at your table like a big girl,” I say, gently guiding her back toward her designated spot.
“But I wanna help!” she insists, puffing out her tiny chest like she’s about to start takingMelangeorders.
I take a deep breath, keeping my voice calm despite the ever-growing pile of tickets on the counter. “Lucy, it’s too busy, and I need you to stay at your table.”
“But I can help!” she argues, hands on her hips now. “I can carry things. I can bring people spoons!”
I glance over at Klaus, who is very pointedly pretending not to hear any of this as he arranges the pastry display with military precision. The two waiters are whizzing between tables, and meanwhile, I’m stuck in a stand-off with a 3 ft 4 in homunculus who thinks she’s ready to run front-of-house.
Before I can come up with a response, someone clears their throat at the counter.
“Hi, excuse me?”
I turn—and of course, it’s her.
Ivy.
The woman who’s name I learned from her Instagram account when she tagged my café. The woman who then mocked my social media skills on Instagram while still managing to make my coffee sound like a religious experience. The woman who, apparently, has now decided to show up looking like she rolled straight out of a nap but still somehow makes it work.
And Lucy, of course, immediately takes an interest.
She looks from Ivy to me, then back again. “You have a stain on your sleeve.”
Ivy chokes on absolutely nothing, her cheeks turning pink. “Oh.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Lucy!”
“What?” she says innocently. “You were very angry when I didn’t tell you that you had ice cream on your shirt at nanna’s birthday party.”
I glance at Ivy, expecting her to look horrified or awkward, but instead, she presses her lips together, actively trying not to laugh.
“But we don’t tell strangers that,” I exhale sharply. “Ignore her,” I suggest to Ivy.
“No, no, she is right,” she says, giving Lucy a wink. “Thank you for pointing it out. I’ll pop it in the wash when I get home.”
Lucy beams.
I glare. “You’re not helping.”
