My Name is Robert

His mother may have called him ‘Robbie.’ To his childhood friends he was ‘Bob.’ But now, “My name is Robert.”

I met Robert at a Waffle House restaurant on the road from Niagara Falls to Niagara-on-the-Lake. By the way, that is a phenomenally beautiful drive along the river, surrounded by vineyards and historic mansion properties. Memories are flooding in but – back to Robert.

We stopped at the Waffle House for a late breakfast after checking out of the hotel at Niagara Falls. The interior of the restaurant was 1960s in crisis. One table had two people in quite an agitated state and, as we sat down, they got up and left. Mumbling something as they passed by us, it became apparent they got tired of waiting for service.

We looked around the empty room, saw a guitar leaning in one corner – that’s interesting – and were about to make a break for it ourselves. Then Robert – whose name I learned later – came out of the kitchen, dusting himself off from flour, crumbs, and other indeterminate matter. Not being able to ask Robert for permission to share his picture, I will assume that his princely manners would not be offended by you seeing him here.

Robert was a model of restauranteur decorum as he shook out his pant legs, straightened his disheveled suit jacket, tucked up his tie, squared his jaw and, with head held high and pen with pad positioned precisely before him, asked us what we would like to order. We were now ‘down for the count’ with no real option to leave. So, with a sigh of foreboding uncertainty, we submitted our requests. Robert disappeared into the bowels of the restaurant and we sat.

Did I mention that we sat. Yes, a rather long period of time passed during which we heard the clatter of pots and miscellaneous activities from the kitchen but no sign of Robert. As we were on the verge of revisiting the option of personal removal, Robert flowed into the dining room with our food. I would like to say that it was a delectable sight. But it wasn’t. Visualize teaming with your 5-year-old child to put together bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast, and you will have a pretty good sense of what the tray of food looked like. Yet Robert administered his craft to us – yes, he had done the cooking – with the flourish of one trained in the finest culinary arts of France.

At this point we were captives to a food experience that would be memorable if not delightful. While we tentatively bit into our meal, Robert stood at attention over us (you do remember that there was no one else in the restaurant) and offered to play his guitar for us as we ate. As I reflect on that day, I still ask myself why we did not accept his offer. That would have been a climactic finale to a surreal event.

We did our best to honour the sacrifice of the elements that went into our meal then moved to pay the bill. At that point Robert pulled out his little stool, as he was under five feet tall, and literally stepped up to the cash machine. After we paid, he graciously thanked us and excused himself because he had to remove and wash the dishes. Yes, Robert was restaurant host, server, cook, dishwasher and, if requested, resident entertainer.

Before he left, I asked him his name. “My name is Robert.” I asked if I could take his picture. He prepared himself upon his stool and there you see him. I have some emotion rising as I write these words. Here was someone whom society-at-large could easily marginalize. And probably whom the restaurant ownership was grossly taking advantage of. Yet I have not seen a better example of personal pride in tangible purpose. I am so glad we stayed and not only met Robert, but had the privilege of our lives being enriched by everything holy that he embodied and lived out in daily practice.