How coriander really tastes like

- Coriander! There is fucking coriander in my dish!

Simon's plate flies and falls on the floor. Sitting at the table, his friends stare at him, trying to understand what's going on. His tongue clicks, his fist smashes the table. He looks around and realises that everyone in the restaurant is staring at him. He looks back at them, looking for approbation on his reaction, but they all turn back, like nothing just happened. Though, he can ear their murmurs, they wonder why the man sitting a few metres away, even centimetres just had such reaction. 

The waiter approaches the table, his gait is fast but somehow, he also seems to go backwards. It feels like he was hoping to never arrive up to the man that just outbursted in the hall, to never have to ask him what happened.

Dealing with customers and their mood swings became like another sad habit for him. Trying to understand what might have upset them is his day-to-day job now. It's not like he ever cares, but that's what is expected of him. It should probably be written on the list of skills required for this type of job: being able to pretend to even have a slight interest for strangers’ non existential problems. And act like you're sorry for it. After all, there are some people out there for this kind of things - psychologists, counsellors, psychiatrists. He whishes someone would have told him about this job's specific before he started. Because you don't only have to listen, understand, and comfort but also to take on the fact that other people's discontents always seem to be your fault. Basically, being a waiter mostly consists in being a punchbag on which random people let go whenever they feel the need to. It's with all that in mind that the waiter approaches Simon, deeply whishing he was walking in reverse. 

- Everything's alright sir?

Simon stays still a moment, his eyes fixing the table. He places his elbow down on the table and watches the waiter, his chin leaning on his fist. 

- Does everything seem to be alright?

- I don't know, that's the reason why I asked you, sir. I heard you were making a complain about your dish. 

- Bring me the menu, please.

The waiter complies. Sitting at the table, Simon's friends keep watching him silently. One finally dares asking him what's going on and recommends not losing his temper with the waiter. But Simon ignores her, hard staring at the waiter and waiting for his return.

- Here you are.

Simone looks closely inside the folder and turns the pages aggressively. His finger finally points at a page and he reads, again and again, the one line at the tip of his finger. 

- Tom, that’s your name right? Please could you show me, in this menu, on the Duck Hachis Parmentier line, where is it written that the dish contains coriander?

Tom stoops slightly to read the line. 

- Nowhere, sir. 

- And why?

- I don't know, I guess we don't add every single herb on the dishes' descriptions. We only write the main ingredients.

- And why?

- I'm not sure why. I mean, we don't write salt and pepper either, even though all dishes have some in it. 

- I see, but it may be wise to specify coriander, don't you think? Have you ever heard about OR6A2?

- No, sir.

- Let me explain you the situation there, Tom. You see, I came here today to celebrate, with my friends, the publication of my first novel, that I spent months to write. I was hoping to have a really nice time, with my friends, eat my hachis, laugh, relax, take out the stress and finally be able to appreciate my recent publishing, you know. But right now, I just feel like shit, and that’s because someone decided to serve me a dish which got a soap's taste.

Simon stands up, throws the menu on the waiter and storms out of the restaurant with a pack of cigarettes in his hand.

One of his friends picks up the menu card and lays his hand on the waiter's shoulder, apologising. The waiter offers to have the kitchen preparing a new hachis for their friend, without coriander this time. They all seem to agree and present them again their sincere apologies to him.

- What's wrong with him today? 

- I don't know, everything seemed fine up until now. He looked happy to go to the restaurant with everyone to celebrate his book. I really don't understand his reaction, says Cecile.

She glances at Sylvain, sitting in front of her. 

- Go speak to him and see what's going on, you're his closest friend. 

- I knew he hated coriander but definitely not to that extend, that was a bit extreme, comments another one.

Sylvain stands up. Before going outside, he stops by the bar and slips a 20 euros' note to the waiter. This gesture, as tiny as it may seem, translates his gratitude for keeping his calm in front of his raging friend. 

Outside, the terrasse is empty. November defeated all the tourists and left the little square deserted. Simon is sitting at one of the tables, smoking a cigarette, staring into space.

He sits next to him, takes a cigarette himself and lights it up.

- What happened to you? The waiter didn't do anything wrong, you know that.

- He could have specify that this dish had coriander in it.

- But what difference does it make, seriously?

- It makes a difference. Imagine, I spent lots of time, months, writing this fucking book, finding an editor, a publisher. A childhood dream that finally realises. So, to celebrate, I thought "Okay, I will invite some friends over to this nice little restaurant". I wanted to treat myself you see, finally take the time to appreciate what’s going on in my life. But then, we arrive here, and they serve me a dish that tastes like soap. How am I supposed to react to that?

- Definitely not the way you had. After you left, the guy even offered to have the dish prepared again for you, without coriander.

- Yes but still, you see, it's about respect. Some people love coriander, for them, it has a fresh, citrus taste and a strong aroma. They are happy when they encounter some in their dish. They tell everybody how good it tastes. So everyone wants some, hoping to feel the same way these people do. However, you have people like me, that don’t like it as much. For us, it just tastes like bloody soap. We would love to actually like the thing, but we can't. So one day, you arrive somewhere, with people like them, that assume everybody like coriander, they don't even bother letting you know that you might don’t like something in there because they truly believe that everybody likes it. And suddenly, you have this horrible taste in your mouth, you don't understand what happens to you, you feel you got fooled or that something is simply wrong with you.

- Yes, okay, but why to get so mad at the man for that? This still doesn't justified your reaction.

- But what do you mean? It's basically like, imagine.. You write a book, and if you're lucky, if what you write is good, it's gonna get published and you'll be happy. Will you, though? That's what people tell you because apparently, it’s how most people feel about it. But yet, you also have some people that don't feel particularly excited about it. But no one tells you that. Everyone says that you'll be happy and that's it, that the feeling is great. But actually, for some, it is not. It just makes them unhappy. Then, should they feel fooled? Or that something is wrong with them? No. So why no one tells you that you might feel this way? Why so many people assume that, for every fucking person, coriander has a nice lemony taste?