I sit where I can see the door

I found the way back to La Fourchette on a corner in Akwa, Douala. The pavement still smells faintly of rain, diesel, and fried plantains, even on today’s dry night. It’s Thursday.

I’m not really sure why I picked this one for the assignment; it’s rare that the editor gives me the choice.

Chances are, I simply needed a pretext to come back here. I like to think that “work” brought me here.

One thing I notice is how salient everything else feels now.

From the outside it still looks like every other place promising comfort and a little aspiration: the chalkboard with prices rubbed out and rewritten, the three potted plants that have known better seasons, scarlet red window sheets drawn halfway so you can see in but not all the way.

Inside, there is only one thing that matters to me: whether there is a seat from which I can see the door.

The host leads me past the bar to a two-top along the back wall, facing the entrance. From there I have a clear line of sight to the glass doors and the mirror behind the counter where late arrivals appear for a second before they sit down.

I sit where I can see the door, just in case you change your mind and come back.

I was worried the staff would remember me, because we were loud.

They don’t.

They seem to think I am particular about ambience. Just another picky customer.

They also don’t know I am grading the restaurant on its exits before I have even seen the menu.

The room seats around forty but feels smaller.

The ceiling is low, fans turning slowly.

Tables are close. Conversations overlap in a steady hum.

The lights are warm without being dim. They make skin look softer and plates look like they belong on Instagram.

La Fourchette wants customers to stay, to order another Castel, and to forget the time.

I note the position of the emergency exit, the distance from my chair to the front door, the narrow space between the bar and the service station where a body could move through quickly if it had to.

1

The menu leans into Cameroonian flavours dressed up for people who can afford to sit down.

There are potato croquettes with lemon, grilled fish with mint and pèpè, roasted plantain with peanut sauce and pickled onions.

There is jollof rice, though they do not call it that on the menu. They call it riz sauté viande, as if frenching the name would justifies the price.

There is poulet DG with baby vegetables and plantain chips stacked higher than they need to be.

Everything on the card suggests that someone has thought about these dishes for longer than I have been hungry.

Starters range from three to six thousand CFA francs; mains hover a little under ten.

Couples could share three plates and leave feeling full and only mildly annoyed at the bill.

Sitting alone, I feel less like one person and more like an error in the restaurant’s math.

As a reviewer, I am supposed to stay separate from the meal, to notice details, to resist being taken in. Objectivity, you know. Emotional detachment. And so on.

La Fourchette makes this harder by opening the menu with a line printed under the logo:

“For anyone who has ever waited for someone who never showed up, we kept a seat.”

Very bad copy, needless to say. But it lands in a place that doesn’t feel theoretical.

I wonder if they realize how many people choose their chairs based on sightlines, and not comfort.

2

For a first course I order rice soup with burnt garlic and soft egg.

It is not written like that on the menu.

They call it clear broth with garlic, rice and farm egg.

When it comes, it is in a wide shallow bowl.

Steam rises in thin lines, like someone has arranged even the heat.

The broth is cloudy, garlic pushed almost but not quite over the edge.

The rice is soft but still there.

The egg sits in the centre, yolk heavy, ready to run and bind everything together.

It is a good dish.

The garlic bitterness brushes against the broth without taking over.

The rice feels like someone watched it closely. Critics apart, I know this from feeding my broke self rice seven days a week at uni.

When the yolk breaks, the soup changes from something you taste carefully to something that coats your mouth and makes the outside feel less sharp for a minute.

If I were scoring only on technique, it would be a 4.5 out of 5.

But taste is only part of what La Fourchette is doing.

From my table I can see everyone who comes in.

People shake off rain from their sleeves, take off masks, look around for whoever they are meeting.

There is always a moment on their faces when they think they see the right person and then realize “Oh, pardon! Excusez-moi”.

My spoon moves without thinking while another part of me keeps count of how many times the door opens without bringing you in.

La Fourchette knows how to create the feeling that everyone belongs to someone else.

That must have been what happened to us last time.

Couples lean toward the centre of their tables.

Groups angle their chairs so no one sits outside the circle.

The only person facing the door is me.

My table is set up for two but occupied by one.

The restaurant offers comfort.

I stay alert.

3

The staff have that weird kind of warmth: they adjust cutlery, refill water, ask the same questions with small changes in tone.

They’ve done this every night for years.

I know: it’s the kind of warmth that never quite becomes familiarity.

My waiter comes back at regular intervals.

He never arrives from behind me.

He sets plates down with both hands, says what they are, and steps just far enough away that I can still see the door over his shoulder.

When he asks “if everything is okay for me here,” he means the food, the light, the chair.

I hear something larger, a question about being the only one at a table meant for two.

No one offers to move me closer to the window or nearer the bar.

In most places, people who eat alone get put at the counter or next to the toilets.

Here I have a real table with space on the other side.

On the surface that is generous.

In practice the empty chair really is part of the décor.

4

The atmosphere is built to make staying easier than leaving.

The music is low and continuous.

There are no sudden gaps where you can hear your own thoughts landing.

The air smells of frying oil, grilled fish, and something sweet, maybe plantain or burnt sugar.

It feels like all exits pass through an old memory.

From where I sit the room organizes into circles.

By the bar, men lean against the counter like the stools were made for them.

In the middle, tables of four hold birthdays, small reunions, nights that matter more than other nights but not so much that anyone will remember dates.

At the edges, tables like mine wait with one glass full and one untouched.

The door opens and closes with a soft hiss of the hinge.

Each time, there is a small pause in the noise.

Heads turn.

Voices dip.

People look up and then back down at their plates.

I keep my eyes on the mirror.

In it, the entrance becomes a flicker of color and movement before it resolves into someone with a reservation.

The chair opposite me stays empty.

Its cutlery is aligned. Glass stays untouched.

Wondering why they left them there.

I should choose to see it as a space reserved for a version of the evening that still includes you.

No comment. Work obligations.

5

The main courses here are written as if no one comes alone.

“For the table.”

“To share.”

“Perfect for two or more.”

I order braised lamb shoulder, a plate meant to be pulled apart and passed around.

They bring it as a half portion but still on a big platter. The kitchen seems to have accepted that some nights the table doesn’t fill.

The lamb arrives with roasted potatoes and a pile of green leaves with vinegar and oil.

The portion is too generous, spreading across the plate as if those who served expected more hands.

I cut into it.

The meat falls away with almost no effort.

Sauce glosses the knife and my fingers.

Softness too intimate for a plate.

While I eat, the host keeps bringing people in.

Coats come off.

Bags go under chairs.

A couple sits at the two-top by the scarlet window.

A group of three takes the round table near the bar.

Midway through my second piece of lamb, the host points to the table by the pillar, the one I used to ask for when I came here with you.

Now someone else sits there.

They take off their jacket.

The chair makes the same sound on the tiles.

A second person joins them.

Reminds me I arrived late.

You weren’t mad at first.

La Fourchette is doing exactly what a restaurant should do.

It fills gaps.

Smooths over absences.

Makes the room look complete.

From where I am, facing the door, spoon paused, it feels like watching my own past get wiped and written over.

The couple at our old spot fall into an easy pattern.

They prop their menus against the bottle of water, swap them, point at the same lines.

The woman talks with her hands.

The man looks at his watch, then at the door, then back at her. He probably needs assurance they are still in the same evening.

The host brings them bread on the house.

I know that basket.

You used to take the dark pieces and push the soft ones toward me.

Tonight someone else breaks the crust.

On paper this is exactly how you turn strangers into regulars.

From my seat it is like watching my own hand reach out and find nothing.

My lamb goes cold while I keep track of how they move.

Her fingers cutting through the air.

Him, almost standing up, foot angled toward the aisle.

I tell myself I am observing for the review, that it matters how space behaves around other people, not just around me.

I care about the choreography.

This is work. This what I am here for.

My body disagrees and starts doing its thing: chest tight, jaw tense, eyes checking the distance to the door in table lengths.

6

The waiter comes back to clear the plate.

He asks:

“How was everything for you?”

His timing is exact. Good restaurant host know when someone is about to disappear into their own head.

I give him the expected answer:

“Excellent, thank you.”

He offers the dessert menu.

There is a ready-made line that would end the night, and cut this supplice short.

“No, just the bill.”

My mouth shapes it.

My hand goes toward my bag.

Instead, I say:

“Yes, please.”

It is a small sentence but it changes the rules.

He leaves and returns with a different card, smaller, printed on the same thick paper. The layout design is not better.

But the language shifts.

“sticky toffee date pudding,” “dark chocolate tart with smoked salt,” “rice pudding brûlée for sharing.”

The last one is marked with an asterisk: “Designed for two, available for one by request.”

If I am thorough I should try the house dessert.

It also feels like a dare.

I ask for the rice pudding brûlée, “for one.”

I want to hear how that sounds in the air of this room.

The waiter doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t offer another spoon.

He just says “Of course,” like this is normal.

While I wait, the couple at the pillar table get their mains.

Plates arrive.

Steam rises.

Hands cross and uncross between them.

She tastes his food.

He pretends to mind and then offers more.

By any normal measure they are having a fine evening.

I realize I am not actually waiting for you to walk through the door anymore.

I am waiting to see whether I can stay seated through dessert.

The pudding comes in a shallow dish on a chipped saucer.

The top is burnt sugar, cracked in one line.

He puts a single spoon down and leaves.

The first spoonful is all texture and heat.

Sugar breaks.

Rice gives way.

Warmth moves up through my face.

It is too sweet, and the burnt edges keep it from collapsing.

I could say, to be precise, that the portion is generous for one but stingy for two, that the balance is more comfort than surprise.

What I notice above all, is what happens between spoonfuls: nothing.

No sudden urge to bolt, no scanning the door, no picture of you at the host stand with an apology ready.

For the time it takes to eat it, I am just someone having dessert at a table with an empty chair.

7

La Fourchette is less a restaurant than a test of how much safety it takes for someone like me to stay seated.

Kitchen seasons well. Service runs on an invisible clock. Room is built so people want to linger.

The restaurant’s success is quieter: makes it possible to order dessert alone and finish it without once rehearsing an escape route.

On a five-star scale I could give 4.5 for food, 4 for service, 5 for atmosphere.

But that would miss the point.

For people who always sit facing the door, just in case, La Fourchette earns a different kind of rating: one full evening where staying feels more interesting than leaving.