Personal Yummy #13
Following is the fifth excerpt that I’m sharing from my coming-of-age novel—set in the nineties—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, an idealistic, ambitious waitress who is at the center of it all.
As this vignette indicates, starting a new job is always an adventure. And having someone to welcome you and support you makes all the difference.
Curt
Each morning when I arrive, there he is, huddling behind the bar—all six-foot-two of him—filling the shiny sinks: one with warm, sudsy water, and the other with steamy, hot rinse water, covering him in a heady mist. On the deep-maroon, tan-topped bar in front of him lounge four or five lemons upon a white plastic cutting board—some whole, some divided, others in triangular, juicy pieces—a glistening, sharp knife beside them, the fresh citrus and fruity soap scents mixing together and permeating the air. And through the old, dusty TV that sits high upon the beer cooler, the energizing theme song of The Price Is Right greets me, reminding me of sweet summer mornings as a child when my father, my younger brother, and I would sit in the living room in my home in the middle of PA, where I grew up, happily watching the show and playing the games together.
I never knew that walking into work could make you feel so good (I’ve read and heard so much to the contrary), but here I am, Monday through Friday, welcomed with a “Hi honey” from Curt (a Tom Selleck look-alike if I do say so myself), wonderful smells, and fond reminders of home.
That’s really great, you say, but what about the rest of the day, until my shift ends at five-thirty? Well, it seems crazy, but I have no complaints about that either. When Curt is busy bartending and the bell rings in the kitchen, I bring out his food and hand it to him, allowing him to personally deliver it to his customers, which I can tell he prefers. And during the lunch rush, from about noon to two, when I am usually quite frazzled, he clears off the dirty tables and booths and resets them while I take orders and dart around.
Even better, he talks kindly to me and, without ever acting bothered, answers any questions I have (such a big help when starting a new job!), always explaining any rules and procedures he thinks I should know. It’s especially enjoyable watching, in the midst of all this explaining, how he so familiarly interacts with all of his friends who stop by often, in some cases every day, to have a refreshing drink or a tasty bite to eat, or just to chat and say hello. After working with him for a while, though, it’s no wonder that so many people come in specifically to see him—the other benefits secondary. A cup of just-brewed coffee gently placed in front of one friend, a hand firmly placed into the hand of another, a wink of an eye so full of recognition, a cocktail given a little more “spirit” than usual. He may be too busy to talk to his friends sometimes, but that doesn’t mean they’re not communicating.
When he does have time to talk, though, he’s so natural and laid back, that you just want to tell him more. Plus, he is so generous, in so many ways (with his attention, for example), but especially with his money. He’s not a bit hesitant about sharing it with anyone who needs it—or really doesn’t need it, for that matter. If he sees you out anywhere in a social situation, whether at the Decade (the well-loved historic rock and roll bar at the corner of Atwood and Sennott streets, near Pitt), Buffalo Blues (the new blues bar and restaurant on South Highland Avenue in Shadyside, which Curt really digs), or Nick’s Fat City (the hip hangout on East Carson Street in the South Side, which features a live band practically every night and has autographed guitars hanging all over the walls), he’s always the first person to offer to buy you a drink. “Give all of my good friends here a drink,” he’ll tell the bartender, motioning to us with a swoop of his hand.
Then there’s his family. His brother, sister-in-law, and two-year-old niece (so cute!) often come from Ohio, where they live, to visit. I’ve waited on them a few times, and each time I do, Curt secretly takes me aside and whispers in my ear, “If they say they’re ready for the check, just tell them that it’s been taken care of.” Curt’s brother, in response, calls from the first booth in the nonsmoking section, closest to the bar, where they always like to sit (he must have an uncanny ability to overhear), “Oh, c’mon Curt; you don’t have to take care of the check again—really.” But there’s no use in arguing; Curt never lets them pay. What’s more, he always offers to babysit his niece so that his brother and sister-in-law can go out on the town and spend some time alone together and enjoy Pittsburgh. It’s obvious that he dearly loves the little girl, because he constantly sweetly smiles and baby-talks to her as he hunches down on his knee and takes her tiny hand.
What impresses me most about him, however, and what I’m most grateful to him for—which is something he’s certainly not required to do—is that (right from my first day) he welcomes me into his circle of friends, introducing me to them like I’m his long-lost buddy: “I’d like you to meet my friend Jenna here, the newest addition to our group.” He even takes the time to tell me funny stories about crazy situations they’ve gotten into together, supplying that history of feelings and never-again moments—through the inflections in his voice, the excitement in his eyes, the laughs that won’t stop—that ties all of them so securely to one another.
Yes, there’s Craig Newbert (aka Globy), the main bartender at the Decade, whom Curt seems to particularly identify with; Dom, the owner of the Decade, who saunters to the bar in his expensive suit and shiny rings, with his attractive gray hair slicked back, sitting sideways on his seat and sipping a whiskey on the rocks; Mark, a cute, black-haired, short, and stocky all-American type of guy who works down the street at the Heads Together bookstore and stops to see Curt after his daily afternoon errand to the post office and before he reluctantly goes back to work; Craig Brockle, an In Pittsburgh employee who helps out at the Decade checking IDs and collecting the cover; Joe Fish and his ornery father, Firpo—the owners of the seafood store and restaurant down the hill on Murray—who are Italian, well-fed, relaxed, friendly, and always clad in stained white butcher clothes and aprons, and also always smelling like Joe’s nickname; Zeech, the exuberant, big-bellied owner of the kosher store, also down the street, who insists on leaving through The Grill’s back door, especially after sunset; Freddie, the black, tiny, extremely skinny, almost-not-there cook from the Squirrel Cage—the always-crowded, hip hangout around the corner on Forbes Avenue—who never looks sad; Pops, also a cook at the Cage—black, tall, elegant, and friendly—who walks in so easily, smiles, and calls me “old blue eyes,” which tickles me; Walter, the successful Squirrel Hill lawyer who enjoys The Grill’s drinks and social aspect more than anyone I’ve seen; and JoAnn (short, full, curly brown hair and glasses) and Kitty (very short, straight, stark black hair—cropped at her chin—and glasses), the two eccentric ladies who work up the block at the insurance agency. Sure, the two of them are very particular about things—“Just a glass of water, half full, no ice, for me,” says JoAnn; “And a cup of coffee…it has to be steaming and filled right to the edge…for me,” says Kitty—but they’ve been so nice to me that it makes me want to cry.
I guess I wasn’t wrong, then, when I first got the feeling that The Grill is an intimate, exclusive club, with no instructions, bylaws, or rules that are written on paper or verbally expressed, but with ideals that are instinctively felt within the hearts and souls of each member: to be happy, friendly, and supportive of each other. And I feel so fortunate that Curt has accepted me into this unusual bunch and has encouraged others, by his actions and demeanor, to do the same. I couldn’t be enjoying my new job and the summer any more than I already am, and I have Curt in part (a great part, that is) to thank.
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