Sozopol Service

Last Saturday was one of those crisp and sunny fall days that you just have to be outside. Zlatina, her boyfriend, Kevin, and I were in Sozopol, a quaint coastal village half an hour south of Burgas. We were enjoying a lazy stroll, when we got hungry. Zlatina and I wanted to indulge our sweet teeth, so we persuaded Kevin to stop by a cafe and get some coffee and baklava or some other kind of pastry.

There we were, looking at the cakes and pastries in the display case. True to my nature, I first looked at the gelatos. However, I noticed that most of the gelato had crusted over, the way it gets when you thaw it and then refreeze it, completely unappetizing. I wasn’t that desperate for gelato, so I moved to the display case with cakes. They looked fresh; there were five or six chocolate ones. I was trying to decide which of them , when I saw the server putting a new kind in. Here’s a translation of our conversation.

Oberonbg (excitedly pointing to the cake): Ohh, what is this?

Server: Which one?

Oberonbg: What you just put in.

Server (looking supremely uninterested): A cake.

Oberonbg (a bit annoyed): Well, yes, yes. But what kind?

Server: A chocolate one.

Oberonbg: Yes, I can see that. But what kind of chocolate cake? What is it called?

Server (righteously indignant): Well, I don’t know! It might be Vienna or not.

By this point I had become thoroughly nonplussed, almost as though I were stuck in an ersatz Abbott and Costello skit.  Zlatina wanted to be helpful and stepped in.

Zlatina: So, if we want to order some, what do we call it?

Even after this helpful explication of my questions, the server continued to regard us with a sour disposition. However, she did proffer the following “answer”:

Server: Well, I’ve only been here a week and don’t yet the names.

Zlatina and I: ?! ….?!

Server (with a tone one reserves for addressing 7-year olds): Well, in any case, you have to order here at the display case, so you can just point.

We did not eat there.  Instead we went to a joint right on the promenade, overlooking the sea, where we were the only customers, not because it wasn’t good, but because such is Sozopol in the winter–halfway to a ghost town. I had a delicious fish soup, delicately flavored with lovage. The waiter was attentive and seemed more comfortable with English than the average Bulgarian. I think our food was better than what we would’ve got from the sour server, who couldn’t be bothered to learn the names of a few cakes.