‘The Turning Table’ is the most recent in a number of businesses that have moved into the bizarre single-story revolving space off US-51. Prior tenants include ‘Dinner with a Twist,’ ‘The Revolving Roti,’ and ‘Pizza in the Round.’ Reviews of each are low to moderate. It goes without saying that the quality ‘spinning’ is not enough to make a successful restaurant.
I arrive in the parking lot and am signaled, by wait-staff inside, that the entrance is currently around back.
‘Yes, whoever commissioned the structure that houses ‘The Revolving Roti’ was an idiot. Unlike traditional revolving restaurants, in which only the interior floor turns, the whole outside of ‘The Revolving Roti’ spins around the core, kitchen area. Even on a good day, this contributes to a number of technical problems including a building-wide shudder every 17 minutes, near constant breakdowns, and intermittent wheelchair access. A brightly painted protective barrier has been installed at the base following a crushing fatality some years ago. The pre-entry waiver does not exactly whet the appetite.
The food is what you would expect from a moderately priced Indian restaurant though the garlic naan stands out above the other options as exceptional.’
Diners watch as I push between the building and the close-growing shrubs on its side, waiting, perhaps, for another fatality. It isn’t a graceful passage but I’ve been walking a long time and would like to sit down. Inches away, ‘The Turning Table’ groans and squeaks, its gears complain in the darkness below. It stops for just a second as something deep within grinds painfully. I press myself into the bush and grimace. I look for support from a couple who have stopped mid-meal to look worriedly back at me. A high-pitched whine indicates a growing pressure from inside.
The machine below breaks from the jam suddenly and the restaurant lurches forward. The couple turns their attention to the woman’s soup, which has sloshed over onto the table.
I press forward.
The entrance is already trying to sneak around the other side by the time I reach the back end of the property. I squeeze my backpack through first and jump in after, just as the bushes overtake the door. A man turns from paying and sees the way is blocked and he rolls his eyes.
He sits in the waiting area while I take a table for one.
The fare is no longer Indian and the naan has gone the way of the previous owners. I order a grilled cheese and lean back in the booth, happy to be rid of the weight of my pack. An untrimmed branch scratches across the window outside, annoying several people around me. I tap the glass and close my eyes.
“Your coffee, sir.”
I shudder awake and see the waitress standing over me with a mug. She hesitates.
“Sorry,” I say, rubbing my eyes, “It’s been a long trip.”
She smiles and nods.
“You can just set the coffee on the table,” I say.
“Just a moment.”
She looks at her watch.
The restaurant grinds to a halt and she expertly counters the motion with her arm so that the coffee doesn’t spill. The sound is worse from the inside- a few customers look worried, others, exasperated and knowing.
The noise continues.
“Looks like we’re stuck, Emily!” someone calls from the kitchen and the waitress, Emily, huffs.
“Careful with this,” she says, handing me the coffee.
Emily and a few other waitstaff gather at a spot ten feet away and stomp a couple times. Eventually, as the noise grows more severe, they resort to little half-jumps. The restaurant starts without warning and, despite Emily’s, I spill my coffee on the table.
She brings me napkins.
The back of the menu has a little rundown of the building’s features and a diagram of the building itself. One arrow points out the ‘jolly rotator,’ another the ‘protect-o-wall.’ Somebody thought these labels were a good idea.
My vision blurs with another pulse of sleep. The slow, whirring movement of ‘The Turning Table’ is doing me in. I take a sip of what remains of my coffee- not bad- and I notice, for the first time, the familiar shape of the restaurant. Two circles, one inside the other, and arrows like rays.
The all-seeing eye.
I chuckle, sleepily, and the restaurant moans.
Halfway through a blink, I fall asleep again.
The quiet clatter of my sandwich on the table wakes me. Emily has already filled my mug and moved on to another customer.
My view is still blocked by shrubs, seemingly infinite amidst my off-and-on napping. Eating helps me stay awake, I was hungrier than I realized.
The restaurant halts again, much to the dismay of a man who had just been served a shake. It starts on its own after a few seconds.
I tap my phone and wonder about the stranger. I tap the menu and wonder about that man, Tom, and his description of the eye. I tap my copy of Shitholes and wonder how I might close the growing gap between myself and the book. ‘The Revolving Roti’ has been out of business for a year. The author’s path is growing cold.
The parking lot slowly rotates into view and a mother desperately tries to get kids out of an SUV before the entrance disappears again. They gesture angrily to the TV screens embedded in the seats ahead of them and she gestures angrily to the door. ‘The Turning Table’ seems to move a little faster suddenly, though it’s likely my imagination.
Assuming the author and I are moving in the same direction, we will only meet if he slows down or if I speed up. I stretch my legs under the table and I wonder just how much faster I have it in me to go.
I wonder about the legitimacy of shortcuts.
-traveler
