TORONTO, Canada—The old woman wheels her walker onto the patio of the restaurant in Old Toronto.

The greeter smiles at her, calls her by name and ushers her to an outdoor table just a few feet away.

Almost as soon as she is seated, a waiter stops by at her table. He places a plate of pasta in front of her and fills her glass with water.

He, too, calls her by name and asks how she’s doing.

“I am well,” she says and asks how he is.

He says he’s doing well, too.

They chat for a few moments about the weather, then he heads off to tend to other diners.

It’s a sunny day. Even under the awning of the restaurant patio the light floods in.

The old woman pulls out a large white sun hat, puts it on her head and ties it into place.

Within seconds, the greeter hurries over to ask her if she’d like to move to another table.

“No, thank you,” the old woman says.

She’s enjoying the day, she says, but she knows it’s not wise for her to get too much sun. She thanks the greeter for his concern.

She eats her plate of pasta slowly, taking a long time between bites.

Even this deliberate progress is hindered, though, by the members of the restaurant staff who stop at her table to visit.

First, it’s a waitress, a young woman working other tables, who jokes that she’s hurt that the old woman didn’t ask for her section.

She asks how the old woman is doing.

“I am well,” the old woman says and then asks the waitress how she’s doing.

“Fine,” the waitress says, then compliments the old woman on her sun hat. The old woman thanks her for the kind words and asks about the young woman’s mother, who apparently has not been well.

The young woman says her mother is doing better and thanks the old woman for asking. The waitress says she must go see to her tables but promises to check back with the old woman later.

The progression continues.

First one bus boy, then another stops by at the old woman’s table to have a friendly word. Even the chef comes out to talk with her.

Everyone calls the old woman by name and asks how she’s doing.

“I am well,” she tells them all—and then always asks how they are.

Soon, the waiter comes back. He takes away her pasta and places before her a heaping bowl of ice cream.

I look. There is no such dessert on the menu.

The old woman savors the ice cream, pausing from her eating only when one restaurant staffer after another stop by to ask if it’s the way she likes it.

Each time, the old woman assures them that it is perfect.

My lunch is finished. I call for the check and settle up.

Before I leave, though, I stop inside the restaurant to ask the bartender about the old woman. Is she the owner, I inquire, thinking that I, too, would stop and tell her that I enjoyed my meal?

“No,” the bartender says with a smile and a shake of the head.

The old woman lives in the neighborhood, he explains. Her husband died a couple of years ago. They were regulars at the restaurant.

Now, she comes to have her lunch there every day. They know what she likes, so they always have it ready for her when she comes in.

The old woman lives alone now. There are some people on the restaurant staff, the bartender says, who think she comes to the restaurant so she knows that there are people who will be looking out for her—people who will miss her if she doesn’t show up.

“She’s really lovely,” the bartender says. “We all like her. We all try to look out for her.”

I thank him for his time.

As I walk out of the restaurant, the old woman is still eating her ice cream. The greeter, I notice, glances over at her table to see how she’s doing.

Outside, the sun shines brightly.

It’s a warm, pleasant day—made even warmer and more pleasant by the sight of an old woman eating ice cream on a restaurant patio.