Personal Yummy #31
A silver snake curls around his right ring finger. Lines from Williams’ 27 Wagons Full of Cotton rush through his mind. Hot, steaming coffee in a white mug—placed in front of him on the edge of the bar while he works—warms him when he is feeling fine; cinnamon and apple spice tea—I love the smell of it—when he isn’t, as he gently dunks the red, shiny tea bag up and down, in rhythm with his steps as he approaches the bar from the kitchen. Generous squirt upon squirt of Tabasco sauce—which he aggressively grabs from the disheveled condiment assortment on the ledge nearby—on his chicken sandwiches, burgers, and buffalo wings during his lunch break; generous amounts of cigarettes, shots, and beer after work… An actor.
******
Deep black, soft, feathery hair adorns his already Italian, undeniable good looks. Wonderful pasta dishes with white wine, made especially for me, increase even more my high opinion of his cooking ability. Papers and business plans in need of writing destroy his after-work drinking plans every so often—when he allows them to. Sense of humor and tender personality make me laugh and smile… A Philly boy.
******
It’s ten thirty on another cold but sunny Saturday morning, and I push open the old, clunky, wooden screen door that leads to the kitchen (the heavier door has already been propped open). There stands Anthony—in his white T-shirt, gray sweatpants, full-length apron, and heavy, black, steel-toe shoes—busily chopping up onions with a large, sharp knife, on a white, plastic cutting board.
The door thumps behind me, and I glance up, and when we lock eyes I instantly know what is coming.
“JENNANA BANANAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
The expression slides easily and exuberantly off his tongue, as it has so many times before and will so many times again, like a small child shooting down a steep waterslide; but at the same time, it sounds full-bodied, rotund, and larger-than-life, reverberating throughout the entire restaurant, through the walls, and into the Squirrel Hill atmosphere.
“Here you go,” he says, as he hands me a perfect, golden, ripe banana that was waiting on the shelf beside him. “I stopped at Giant Eagle on the way here.”
“You never disappoint me, do you?” I reply, taking the banana and beginning to peel it.
“I try not to,” he answers, smiling—his deep, brown eyes shiny—and returns his attention to the onions.
******
I’m behind the bar, wetting a rag, when I hear the lock in the front door turn. It’s almost ten to eleven.
In walks Adam—well, at least he tries to walk in; his dirt bike is caught sideways in the doorway.
“Holy hell,” he grunts. But, as usual, he isn’t frowning.
“Tough night once again?” I ask, lightly covering my mouth with my hand.
He has just finally gotten through the door and is practically leaning on his bike. His brown, wavy, thick hair is sticking up in every direction, sweat is lightly running down both sides of his face and into the stubble above his lip and on his chin, and his tight, white pullover and baggy jeans are lightly clinging to his stocky body.
He sighs. “Yeah, well, I guess it’s pretty amusing, isn’t it? Me looking like this every Saturday morning?”
“Well, you know,” I reply.
“Yeah, I do know,” he answers, smiling gently, and looks at me with red eyes. “Yeah…you guessed it…it was another night of raucous snowboarding…and drinking,” he says, really to no one at all, as he pushes his bike toward the back of the restaurant and then disappears into the basement.
And, as I giggle to myself, I can’t help thinking, as I’ve done so many times already, that he looks like he has just snowboarded down the mountain, rather than the night before.
******
Much to my satisfaction, that’s what—or should I say whom—I have to look forward to when I wake up on Saturday mornings: Adam and Anthony, my two good-looking, good-natured, easy-to-get-along-with (and not to mention terribly sexy) male coworkers. God must be looking out for me I whisper over and over again, being able to see Anthony every time I walk into the kitchen, and Adam every time I walk out of it; being teased by them and being able to tease them back—obviously some divine recompense for my having ended up attending a women’s college.
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The above excerpt is from my coming-of-age novel—The Grill on Murray Avenue—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.
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