Personal Yummy #49
He suddenly appears through the front door with a white cardboard coffee cup in his hand (Coffee Tree Roasters fancily written in green on the side), his heavy key ring jingling as we are preparing to open—Anthony chopping up vegetables, heating up the soups, and lightly cooking some pasta; Adam filling up the sinks behind the bar and wiping off the liquor bottles; me making iced tea and coffee and setting all of the tables with a paisley place mat, napkin, knife, and fork, writing Soup du Jour with an erasable marker on the lit board above the poker machine; some old movie playing on the TV. It is always a good feeling when he shows up, though—never a tensing of the shoulders or neck or an eerie feeling of doom. I mean, I’m sure he comes in to check up on things and make sure that we are arriving reasonably on time and doing our jobs properly. But Bobby is about the most easygoing boss you could ever get.
No, I’m serious. Think about the nicest boss you’ve ever had and then multiply that by two—even three.
It’s unusual for him to be here this early, however. Most Saturdays it is just the three of us—us young college students in our early twenties, effectively running the entire day-shift operation. This, certainly, is another reason why I love working here on this particular day of the week. And not because there is no authority figure around to keep us in line. Rather, I love it because Bobby has placed a huge amount of trust in us—put his pot of gold, his shiny diamond, his new car, in our hands. And not just once, either, but week after week, and month after month. So, in fact, we don’t act negligently or take advantage of the absence of authority, as many might expect. We become the authority, get a true taste—continually—of the confidence, respect, and responsibility another’s trust gives you.
“Who wants breakfast from Pamela’s?” he asks, once he sees, with a few glances, that we have everything under control, and as he sits down at the bar to flip through the mail from the week before. “Eggs, banana pancakes, bacon, chocolate chip or strawberry pancakes…whatever you want…”
The three of us gather around him. Adam and Anthony give him their orders, which he quickly jots down on a small, rectangular pad of paper, identical to the ones I am so used to using.
Big surprise, but I can’t decide what to get (I have a horrific time making decisions). Do I want the fluffy, homemade pancakes stuffed with juicy slices of banana and tender walnuts? A Belgian waffle topped with pretty strawberries and outlined in whipped cream? Or simply a fresh egg sunny-side up, with toast?
“Bobby, you know what,” I tell him, after taking way too much time to think about it, Adam and Anthony shooting me many ornery, impatient glares, “I really can’t decide between the banana pancakes and the eggs… Why don’t you just order something for me?”
“You got it,” he replies instantly (I like a man who doesn’t hesitate). After securing his stack of mail with a rubber band and sliding it into the space between the bar’s register and the wall, out the door he goes, on his way to the crowded, always-busy, small café around the corner on Forbes Avenue (across from the Cage), which consistently has a folding chalkboard out front that highlights all of its specials, and is always packed with hungry, chatty, smiling, so-happy-it’s-the-weekend-and-I’m-out-for-breakfast Pittsburghers.
About twenty minutes to half an hour later I see a sneaker jutting its way inside, as Bobby successfully opens The Grill’s front door with the help of his foot, a stack of Styrofoam containers in his arms.
“Adam! Anth!” he calls. “Your breakfasts are here!” Then he turns his attention to me. “Where are those two? Making plans for later, I assume…as usual?” he asks, smiling and shaking his head.
“I think you’re pretty well on the mark with that,” I answer, secretly hoping that those plans include me.
“Well, Jenna. Enjoy.” He walks toward me and places two large Styrofoam containers beside the tower of place settings (place mats cum napkins) I am constructing. I look up at him in surprise.
He laughs. “Well, since you had so much trouble deciding, you must really have wanted both. So, an important executive decision was in order.”
******
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.
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