"To begin, fetch hither your finest snow pea pods, your rarest steak, a glass of plain lassi, a few slices of ciabatta, and a bowl of salted garlic roasted in olive oil and butter."
   That was his order.  Small thin man in the back booth.  He wore a brown trilby, which he took off immediately he was through the doors, and he was smoking a pipe.  He stared at me with clear brown eyes through the smoke as he ordered.  He didn't even look at the greasy menu propped up against the salt and pepper rack.
   "This is a bar," I told him.  "We've got steak, but the closest thing to a vegetable we've got is canned corn.  I don't even know what lawsee and chabotta are, and if there's any real garlic in the kitchen it's probably moldy."
   He smiled, a genuine smile that went all through his eyes.  He removed the pipe from his mouth once again.  "Then I will have a rare steak and some canned corn.  Ciabatta is bread and lassi is a yoghurt drink."  His eyes were still smiling as he put the pipe stem back into his mouth.
   "We got bread," I said.  "Do you want it toasted?"
   "Toasted will be fine.  Do you have real butter?"
   "Sure.  What do you want to drink?"
   He leaned back and looked up wistfully.  "What I /want/--what I /really want/ to drink--is the fermented drink my sister makes out of durian."
   "I don't think we can get that, mister," I said.  "Unless your sister can come in."
   "She's in Tahiti right now, so it would be rather a long wait.  How about Chateau Neuf-du-Pape '85?"
   "Is that wine?"
   "Yes."
   "We've got some red Italian stuff."
   "That will do."
   "Is that all?"
   He smiled again.  "For now, yes, thank you."
   I went away to take the ticket to the cook and check on my other two customers--it was real late at night.  When the man's order was ready, I took it to him.
   "Ahh, you bring food, the best thing a person can do," he said, setting his pipe aside.
   I set the food on the table, and set the wine bottle down too.  "I brought the bottle, just in case," I told him.
   "I thank you very much, kind woman," he said, taking the bottle and reading the label.  "Last year--fine, fine.  This will do beautifully."
   "Enjoy your food, mister," I said, and left him again.
   I looked at him a lot, but didn't go back over to the table until I noticed he'd stopped eating.  Which was an hour and a half later.  He must've been eating /really slow/.  I went back to him, and asked how he'd liked the food.
   "The finest meal I have had in my life," he said, and he scared me a little because he seemed serious, in his eyes.
   "How could it be?" I asked, unable to stop myself.
   "My life begins anew every second--at this moment, that is the only meal I have ever had, therefore it is the finest."  He lit his pipe again then, and watched me through the smoke.
   I was sorta stunned.  So I said the only thing I could think of:  "Would you like desert?"
   "Oh, would I ever," he said, enthusiastically.  "A puff pastry filled with cream cheese and peaches and honey, and maybe some walnuts.  A plate of fresh figs, an espresso and a small--very small--glass of port, any port.  Any port, ahh, any port in a storm.  Oh yes."
   "How about apple pie and coffee?"
   His eyes were shining and he looked at me like he'd never heard a better idea.  "That would be beautiful, my dear lady.  A beautiful end to a brilliant meal."
   "You want cream and sugar?"
   "I would love cream and sugar," he said.
   So that's what I brought him:  apple pie, little containers of non-dairy creamer and sugar, a big mug of coffee.
   He poured the creamer in his wine glass, mixed in the sugar, and used a spoon to scoop the mess over the pie.  During my break, I sat at the bar with a Coke and a cigarette and watched him eat just as slowly as he did before.  He didn't touch the coffee for half an hour.  It must have been stone cold by then, but he seemed just as thrilled with it as he had with everything else.
   He gave me a tip twice as big as the bill, proving that it pays to be civil to the crazies.