In Roger Angell’s début short story in The New Yorker, published in 1944, two women encounter a surprising scene over their morning coffee at a hotel restaurant.
The midtown hotel restaurant was almost empty at eleven-thirty in the morning. Three waiters were talking in a corner, leaning against the wall. A young waitress was going from table to table and cleaning out the ashtrays with a wet rag. No one was seated at the larger tables in the middle of the room, but here and there, at the little tables that ran the length of the room at each side, a few late breakfasters lingered over their coffee, reading newspapers.
“Two coffees,” the other girl said to the waiter who was standing beside their table. As soon as he had gone, she leaned forward. “It must have been too awful,” she said in an excited whisper. “You really look terrible.” “Honestly,” she said, “if I have to get another cigar burn in my evening frock on account of Milt’s customers, I’ll go out of my head. And then there’s that author, whatever his name is.”“I don’t care what he is. Last night he tried to tell me that Jean McNeill lost that modelling job because she was drunk all the time.
The girl with the red hat turned slowly back and stared at her companion, her eyes wide. “My God,” she whispered. “I was never so scared in my life. Did youThe other girl glanced expectantly around the room. The three waiters showed no signs of moving from their corner. The headwaiter, his back to them, was talking to a bus boy by the kitchen doors. When the woman had started talking, people had looked up, but now they were reading their newspapers again.
The woman put her hands out to pull herself upright and hit her ashtray, spilling cigarette butts all over the tablecloth. She looked around wildly. “Got to apologize,” she said. “Got to apologize to these other ladies and gentlemen for not being a social being. Not a lady.”,” the woman on the banquette cried.
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