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Pretty soon the waiter is back with our lasagna and spaghetti, and he swirls around the table as if he were dancing.

"Anything else now? Mind the hot plates, very hot! Have a good lunch now. I bring the coffee later."

He swirls away, the napkin over his arm making a little breeze, and circles another table.

It's a small room, and there are only four tables eating, but he seems to enjoy acting like he was serving royalty at the Waldorf.

When we're just finished eating, he comes back with a pot of steaming coffee and a pitcher of real cream.

I'm dolloping the cream in, and it floats, when a thought hits me: We got to leave a tip for this waiter.

I whisper to Ben, "Hey, how much money you got?"

He reaches in his pocket and fishes out a buck, a dime, and a quarter.

We study them.

Figure coffees for a dime each, and the total check ought to be $1.95.

We've got $2.35 between us.

We can still squeak through with bus fare if we only leave the waiter a dime, which is pretty cheap.

At that moment he comes back and refills our coffee cups and asks what we will have for dessert.

"Uh, nothing, nothing at all," I say.

"Couldn't eat another thing," says Ben.

So the waiter brings the check and along with it a plate of homemade cookies.

He says, "My wife make. On the house."

We both thank him, and I look at Ben and he looks at me.

I put down my dollar and he puts down a dollar and a quarter.

"Thank you, gentlemen, thank you. Come again," says the waiter.

We walk into the street, and Ben spins the lone remaining dime in the sun.

I say, "Heads or tails?"

"Huh? Heads."

It comes up heads, so Ben keeps his own dime.

He says, "We could have hung onto enough for one bus fare, but that's no use."