The Race

Personal Yummy #42

I’m in the kitchen, picking up a New York strip with a side of mashed potatoes, and there’s Mary Ellen and Tommy, chomping on chicken wings taken from the large bowl sitting beside my steak.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mary Ellen says. “When you’re finished dropping that off, come back here and try these. They’re something new we’re testing—garlic-parmesan-flavored.”

Tommy nods his head and licks his lips, obviously totally in favor of the new concoction. “And get the word out to the others, too, if you don’t mind,” he adds.

If I don’t mind? Is he kidding?

I deliver the plate of food in what I think is record time, and then I go up to the bar. “Hey, Nick, guess what?”

He raises his eyebrows nonchalantly.

“Well, a little bird, there in the kitchen…that little bird told me that something good’s awaiting.”

Hell, that’s all I need to say. He is in the middle of counting a stack of money, but he shoves it into the register, closes it, and is off.

I motion to Shane, and he understands what I mean, but he has just begun taking an order for a family of eight. Aw, the torture.

Kerry, our newest hostess, an intellectual-looking blonde who goes to the beauty school downtown, is fortunate to be let in on the secret next. She immediately stops arranging the disheveled stack of menus and redirects her attention to you know where.

As for me, I notice that a group of four was seated in my section while I was in the kitchen. Really, to be honest, I should go over there and wait on them now. But, hey, what’s a few more minutes studying the menu?

So I arrive in the kitchen, and of course there the four of them are, shoulder to shoulder, huddled together in an intimate little circle around that bowl of temptation, chatting and smiling and enjoying the wings so much you’d think that’s the first they’ve eaten in days. But, then again, it’s always this way, no matter if Mare’s made us a bowl of fried mushrooms, a plate of gooey, decadent, cheesy potato skins, or some hot, glistening french fries. We act as if we aren’t even working, as if the customers waiting for us out front don’t really exist. In fact, I bet we all completely forget about them for a few minutes. I know that I do.

“Hey, you guys,” I say, nudging my way in between Nick and Kerry, feeling much more of Nick’s body than I had intended, “it’s my turn…okay?”

I grab two out of the four wings that are left, and Tommy grabs one too, shooting me a feigned look of disgust.

“Fine with me,” Kerry says, turning around and reaching for the spigot. “I’ve had quite enough.” Her finely manicured nails shimmer with olive oil and specks of parmesan.

“You can’t be serious…this is all that’s left?… Mare?” I say.

“I’m all set, honey.”

“Well, in that case…”

I greedily start enjoying the two wings I had barely retrieved for myself.

But poor Shane. He slides into the kitchen just as Nick is devouring the last one.

What a look he gives us. “You couldn’t save me just one? Just one this time? Not even one?”

“Well, you know how it goes, there, buddy,” Nick reminds him, body checking him rather abruptly. “You snooze, you lose.”

Apparently there is nothing he can say to this, so he just starts jumping up and down.

******

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, a young waitress who dreams of becoming a professional dancer.