Red is for Reconciliation

I was so pleased to have finished another shift at that depressing cafe. My first paid job — I had not planned to stay long but it covered the rent for now. Spoken to like an idiot most days, the staff wore the assumption that the colour of my skin and the non-Anglo features of my face meant that I was not only fresh off the boat with a repertoire of caveman English, but also that I suffered from a chronic case of deafness. ‘You got orda table two!’ They would shout at me in their mock Asian accents and patronizing grins, ‘They won vienna extra cream an ham cheese pineapple mel okay? Extra two dollar for pineapple okay? Two dollar. You got orda?’ Nobody there seemed the type who would appreciate a coffee-break lesson in grammar and articulation. Nor did they seem the type who would take too kindly to a few tips on culinary enhancement and appreciation. Tinned asparagus and cheese melts, bacon and cheese melts, tomato and cheese melts, cinnamon toast, raisin toast, cheese on toast, baked beans on toast. I was up to my eyeballs in melted cheese and soggy bread. Like a child starved of affection, I craved desperately the food of home.