The Three of Us and Primanti

Personal Yummy #50

“Ready, Jenna?” Mike asks.

It’s now approaching two o’clock in the morning. I worked the late shift, but for the past hour I’ve been talking with Beth and her boyfriend, Mike, a sweet, kind, gentle, intelligent, attractive, and extremely funny guy who likes to tell innocent jokes. They often come to The Grill together around eleven o’clock or midnight on Friday nights and hang out and drink a few beers until closing, and they always offer to give me a ride home.

“You bet, Mike. Just let me grab my things.”

I go downstairs into the basement and gather my purse and my duffel bag and, in no time at all, reappear upstairs.

“All set, Mike.”

So we are happily on our way. Nick locks the door behind us—“Good night, guys”—and we walk to Mike’s old, grayish-blue Cadillac, parked tonight in Mellon Bank’s lot, which is across the street and about half a block to our right (it’s okay to park there while the bank is closed). Other times, Mike parks directly across the street at a meter in front of Barnes & Noble, or at a meter in front of the Gulf Station.

Once we’re all safely in the car, we head toward the light at the intersection of Murray and Forbes. It never fails—it always turns red just as we get there. The streets are practically deserted by this time of night, but Mike is always patient. He waits for the light to turn green, saying that you never know where a cop could be hiding out.

When it’s safe to proceed, Mike makes a left onto Forbes Avenue, and in a matter of seconds, Beth and I will be home (Beth now lives in the first-floor apartment below mine, in our three-floor walk-up). Even though the “trip” is so short, I thoroughly enjoy the stillness, rolling down the window in the back seat to allow the cool, refreshing, almost startling air to flow over me, getting rid of some of the smoke that has penetrated my clothes, hair, and lungs.

Mike pulls up to the curb in front of our building, but before we get out of the car, he asks us the usual question: “So, you two, what flavor of Primanti will it be tonight?”

Beth and I look at each other eagerly.

“I’ll have a corned beef,” Beth says, giving Mike a kiss on the cheek.

“And I think I’ll have a pastrami tonight,” I say, unlocking my door.

“Okay, you got it; a corned beef and a pastrami coming right up… Why don’t you two go in and relax and I’ll go pick them up and be right back.”

“Okay, honey,” Beth says.

“Thanks, Mike,” I add.

We get out of the car, close the car doors behind us, and head up the concrete steps. Once inside Beth’s apartment, which sits just to the right of the entranceway, we go into her kitchen and bring out whatever we need for our gathering, setting everything up on the small coffee table in the living room.

Primanti Brothers—especially on the weekends after the bars let out, when people of all ages are in the mood for some satisfying and hardy sustenance to soak up all of the beer, shots, and mixed drinks they’ve sustained themselves with for most of the night—is the place to go. There’s corned beef, pastrami, roast beef, kolbassi, knockwurst, turkey, grilled chicken breast, fish, and egg and cheese—your choice—piled high on rye bread, with coleslaw, hot sauce, and thick, juicy french fries on top.

Yes, french fries. They are the unique ingredient that has made the sandwiches so famous. There’s a Primanti Brothers in the Strip District (the original location), but Mike always goes to the one in Oakland, a straight shot down Forbes Avenue.

Beth and I chat for a while, and in about half an hour, Mike is back, the warm, abundant sandwiches with him.

I can’t wait.

******

“Yummy!” I say without fail as I take a bite, having already quickly grabbed my sandwich out of the paper bag and unwrapped it from the wax paper in which it was held. There’s almost always a pint glass full of Pepsi sitting on the coffee table in front of me (unless I’m in the mood for a beer), among an issue of Cosmopolitan, two Budweisers (one each for Beth and Mike), three stoneware plates of varying bright colors, and a jar of Tabasco sauce, which Mike swears is the perfect addition to the delicious sandwiches, and which I have to undoubtedly agree with. Beth sits on the couch with me, to my left, and Mike pulls up a chair across from us.

“Yeah, they certainly hit the spot, don’t they?” Mike says, and then he likewise takes a big, juicy bite.

These after-hours socials with the two of them mean so much to me, the three of us sitting in our intimate circle in Beth’s open but cozy apartment with the colorful painting by Monet above her fireplace; enjoying the thick, flavorful sandwiches; chatting and laughing as Beth’s black, petite, friendly cat, Stormy, joins in our conversations by looking at us curiously, meowing at us happily, and affectionately rubbing up against our legs. I feel especially at ease with the two of them, comfortable enough to untuck my shirt, take off my shoes, and curl my feet up under me as we talk.

Beth tells me about her job at Carnegie Mellon and how well she is doing, having recently been promoted to a management role. She even has her own office now with her very own name displayed on the door in fancy letters, and she is traveling occasionally to Toronto to speak at seminars and to lead computer training courses. There is even the possibility that she may be offered a permanent position in Toronto in the near future, after she completes her master’s degree. Both she and Mike are so excited about it because they think that Toronto is such an amazing city.

We also talk a lot about The Grill. It is during these conversations that I find out about the histories and secrets of many of its employees and regulars, such as who used to date whom, when and why they broke up, what the true reason is for a person acting a particular way, and on and on. I even discover what Beth’s true feelings about having worked at The Grill are.

“Boy, Jenna,” she casually says during one of our late-night feasts, as she sits down beside me, having just returned from the kitchen with two more Buds for herself and Mike, “I just bet you can’t wait to get your dance degree so you can get out of that place.”

I put down my sandwich and look at her, not exactly sure how to respond.

“Well,” she says, recognizing my surprise, “I just know that I was so happy to quit working there myself.”

“Really?” I say, thinking. “I mean, I realize that working there was very tiring and quite a juggling act for you, but you really didn’t like it?”

“Oh…well of course I did sometimes, but most of the time I just got so tired of people asking for this and that and telling me what to do, especially the rude customers. And then there was trying to deal with Nick and his arrogance, and then the sleazy guys who would come in at night and gawk at me and say sexist things.” (Mike can’t seem to avoid raising his eyebrows when she says this…) “I mean, I really liked most of the people who worked there, but I just didn’t want to be in that environment anymore.”

I don’t say anything for a few seconds. “Wow, Beth, I…I can completely understand your frustration with Nick and how utterly rude he can be sometimes…and some of the customers, too…but I really haven’t run into any guys who harass me or give me any major problems, except every now and then, of course,” I reply.

“Well, you know what? I did notice that things were starting to get much better right before I quit, compared to when I started working there, and things seem to be really good now. Bobby, he has…yeah, he has really cleaned up the place and enhanced the menu, which has brought in a lot of respectable customers and turned away some of the utter creeps who used to go in there.” She shakes her head, obviously still disturbed at the thought of them. “Actually, it’s much more of a ‘restaurant with a bar’ now rather than just a bar, like it was before, so…I suppose working there now wouldn’t be so bad. But I was just so eager to get on with my career. Yeah, I think that my desire to move on was probably the main reason I was dissatisfied working there… I have to say, though, I like the place much better now that I can go in as a customer, have a few drinks, and hang out for a while without the pressure of making sure that no one’s glass is empty,” Beth says, picking up her beer and taking a drink, pausing for a moment. “But, Jenna, really? You… You particularly enjoy working there?”

“Oh yeah, Beth, I really do,” I say, wiping my mouth with my napkin. “I mean, I get tired of it some days, especially when someone is unexpectedly nasty or I go to clean off a table and a tip is nowhere in sight—not hidden under the sugar container, or misplaced under the place mat, or accidentally on the floor or under the table, nowhere—but, to tell you the truth, I’m quite taken with the place. I really get a sense of satisfaction at the end of the night when everyone has left and all of the tables are cleared and wiped off, and I’m sitting at the bar having a drink while either Curt or Nick is behind the bar finishing up, and the music on the radio is playing. I think about the many different people I served, joked with, observed, and talked to during the night, and I feel like I really got a taste of life. And then to count the pile of tips that were waiting for me all night long in my basket, and to put the money in my purse and take it home with me, feeling more secure because of it than I had felt before I got there…it’s such a good feeling. And, most of all, on the nights when I’m the early-person-out, to come home to my nice, steamy apartment, especially when it’s freezing outside, and wind down with David Letterman—there’s no beating that,” I say, leaning back against the couch, folding my hands in my lap, feeling absolutely content, having really been talking to myself rather than to Beth and Mike.

Eventually, however, I do realize where I am, and how long I’ve been going on (very unusual for me), and the sense of calm I feel is immediately overshadowed by a tinge of self-consciousness. I glance from Beth to Mike, and then back.

But, really, I can tell there is nothing to worry about.

They sit there smiling, looking at me thoughtfully.

******

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.