The Begging Bowl

I’m sitting outside one of the restaurants on the Prado — set meal for 20bs (about £2). I’m not expecting much, and I’m not disappointed.

My bread arrives just ahead of the soup, and sits patiently in its basket, not caring whether I eat it or not.

A woman with a huge bundle on her back (no room for chips on either shoulder), and a young raggedy child in tow, walks between the tables making the time-honoured gesture of the hungry, and then holding out her hand, in the more familiar gesture of those in need of a hand-out.

I give her a chunk of bread, which she accepts, but is obviously not all that impressed as she repeats the earlier gesture combination.
I stand firm, compassion fatigue kicking in.

As she walks away it goes through my mind that she’s probably dumb; it stands to reason, given all the other deformities so common in this town.

I begin tentatively to spoon the soup into my mouth, trying to decode its essentially non-complex taste, and unfamiliar glutinous texture. I try some of the bread with it; I believe this is what you’re supposed to do. Neither the soup nor the bread succeeds in stimulating my appetite.

A boy of indeterminate age (older than five, younger than ten perhaps) approaches my table and holds his hand out.
There is something almost mechanical in his movements, as if he has to make the round of restaurants in a given time, and he can only give each person five seconds to react.
I can hardly pour soup into his hand so I give him a chunk of bread. He doesn’t seem very impressed either, but then, neither am I.

The waiter brings the main course and I eat the rice and vegetables, and the more edible looking parts of the meat.

As I’m poking around at the remains of this with my knife and fork, trying to determine from which part of which animal it used to belong, a little girl appears holding out her plastic begging bowl, which bears the scars of previous hand-outs in the same way an unwashed cat bowl gains a crust.

I can’t tell how old she is either; maybe it’s the world-wary eyes in such a young head, which are barely level with the tabletop.

A bit of eye movement occurs: she looks at the food left on my plate, then at me; I look at her, then at the food left on my plate. It’s the amount of time my brain needs to realise that she wants my leftovers.

The ‘deal’ having been arranged entirely by eye movement, I pick up my plate and use my knife to scrape what’s left of my meal into her bowl, acutely aware that this is something you would usually do for your dog.

She walks away though, seemingly content, and I stare at my empty plate, thinking that this isn’t something that would happen at Jamie’s Italian.

When the dessert arrives, in the shape of a piece of cake, I don’t even bother to try it. I wrap it up in a napkin and wait for the next contender.

It turns out to be the same little girl, bowl empty once more.

I pick up the paper-wrapped cake and put it in her bowl.
She pulls at the paper napkin to see what’s inside (for all she knows it could be a lump of half-chewed gristle).

When she sees it’s an unmolested piece of cake her eyes widen, and I take this to mean that she’s pleasantly surprised.

When she’s gone, I see again her wide-eyed expression, like an after image, and I start to wonder if she’s been studying Charlie Chaplin movies in between her begging forays.