A Family of Six

Personal Yummy #54

Mom, dad, grandmother, baby girl, and two little boys…

The front of the restaurant is empty, so I decide to put them there. As they wait, eyes upon me, the baby wriggling in the mother’s arms, I move the four-seater to the center of the space (it usually sits fairly close to the wall that lines the entranceway), and then add to it the two-seater that is normally next to the window.

As I hurry to the back of the restaurant to retrieve the wooden high chair that is hiding in the space behind the booth closest to the kitchen, the family has already started to move in, and without my signal (as happens often). I carry the high chair to the front as fast as I can (although a bit unwieldily), and then try to push it into place beside the mother, although as soon as I do that she gets up and moves to the other side of the table as one of the dark-headed boys keeps imploring “I want chicken fingers and french fries,” and as the baby tugs fiercely at the winter hat that has fallen down over her eyes.

I then grab menus from the ancillary bar and try to pass them out individually but fail to get anyone’s attention. Adam is glancing at me from behind the bar as he draws a beer, a look of concern in his eyes, but it’s obvious that he is just too busy to help, a full, active bar surrounding him.

I rush to the back of the restaurant to check on the two parties that have already been served, hoping that I haven’t neglected them for too long. Then I fly into the kitchen, warning Anthony that a large order will be making its way back in a few minutes.

Next, I ask the family what they would like to drink. This, which is usually the easiest part, is a struggle in itself. Root beer or Sprite? the father inquires (over and over again), but the little boys just can’t seem to decide, their changing minds reflected in their wide eyes. My notepad is full of strikeout lines.

Having finally gotten their drink order, I rush around to fill it. Soon I head back to their table, carrying their drinks on a small round tray: one root beer and one Sprite (each in a small cardboard cup, with a lid and a straw, as requested by the mother), a Fuzzy Navel, a bottle of Iron City, and a strawberry wine cooler with a glass of ice, plus three pint glasses full of ice water.

I steady the loaded tray in the palm of my left hand, my long, thin fingers spread out underneath as far as they will go, and I deliver the drinks with my right as I move slowly around the table. Still, after all of this time, it amazes me that I can do this, this balancing act, this feat of coordination, this cardhouse that could weaken and shatter in an instant—yet somehow, at the same time, I lack no confidence.

They give me their food order. A Cajun chicken salad with pepper-parmesan dressing, on the side, please. A cheeseburger and potato salad, with cheddar, lettuce, tomato, pickle, and raw onion—make sure it’s well-done, though…thanks. An order of buffalo wings, with celery and blue cheese, and plenty of extra napkins. A side of apple sauce, for the baby. A child’s order of chicken fingers and french fries (surprise, surprise), and a child’s order of spaghetti with marinara sauce, but not too much sauce.

I head to my register to punch in the order, but I’m stopped on the way by two sets of couples who have just appeared in the doorway. Instantly, Holy hell! flashes across my mind, but, calmly, Two for lunch? Smoking or non? proceeds from my lips.

After seating both couples, I manage to make it to my register without interruption, wishing that I had been able to put in the family’s order a few minutes earlier, knowing that it takes at least twenty-five to thirty minutes to grill a well-done burger.

The next half hour passes by quickly, filled with taking orders, refilling drinks, making change, and preparing desserts, although I feel the stares and irritation emanating from the front. I realize then that I should’ve told them that a well-done burger takes quite a while to cook, especially since it’s a generous serving. I usually do this, but somehow it slipped my mind today. I avoid catching any of their eyes, too busy to deal with their impatience, when the ring of the bell finally releases me.

I race back to the kitchen, telling Anthony that I’ll take half of the order out first (as I load it onto a medium-sized rectangular tray), and then come back for the rest. “No problem at all,” he answers, in his usual, good-natured way. Actually, though, I’m supposed to carry the entire order out at once on one of the extra-large, oval trays (you know how it goes: Set up the folding support-gizmo ahead of time and then set the large tray on top of it and deliver all of the food in one trip. It’s more professional to do it this way, and half the party won’t have to wait to eat their food out of respect for the other half who haven’t received theirs yet).

But I fear doing this. (Where’d that confidence go?) To begin with, there’s a really good chance that I could knock the side of the tray against the wall as I exit the kitchen, given that the corridor is unbelievably narrow, which could result in the avalanche and crashing of plate upon plate (and food upon someone’s head).

Most of all, however, I just don’t have the upper body strength to do it: first, to heave those pounds up on my right shoulder; second, to carry all that weight to the front of the restaurant (even though it’s really not that far); and third, to crouch down and set the tray upon the support (which really isn’t very high) without tipping it too far one way or the other. Luckily, in the evenings when I work with Diana, she’s always very willing to carry these large orders out for me (tell a caring person your weakness, and they’ll usually compensate for you). But on Saturday afternoons like this one, I’m on my own.

I deliver the Cajun chicken salad (the large glass bowl takes up half the tray itself!), the wings, the applesauce, and a stack of napkins (not the good ones, but the square, thinner type). “I’ll be right back with the rest,” I tell them, smiling, and then return to the kitchen quickly, the tray hanging by my side. There sit the two dishes for the children, but the burger and potato salad are nowhere in sight. I don’t think too much about it, sure that the burger is hidden behind Anth, who is standing over the charcoal grill with a spatula in his hand, his back facing me. I stand there for a moment, but then, unable to wait any longer, I ask, “Is that burger just about ready, Anth?”

I hope I don’t sound like a pest.

He turns around quickly, a confused and shocked look on his face. “Burger? Did you order a burger?” he asks quickly as he grabs the receipt that he had placed under the bowl of spaghetti, which is usually a signal that he has finished preparing an order.

I glance at the grill, and all I can see on it are a few chicken breasts…

My heart sinks.

“Oh my god did I for—” he begins, but before he can finish, he looks up from the receipt and tells me the bad news. “There’s no burger on this order, Jenna.” He hands it to me gently.

I examine it, maybe three or four times, in utter disbelief. “Oh my god! You mean I forgot to order the burger?” I mumble, still staring at the receipt. “How could I do such a thing? Especially with something that takes so long to cook? I never miss—”

But Anthony, thank goodness, interrupts me. “Jenna—these dishes are gonna get cold. Why don’t you take these out now and I’ll get started on that burger? Okay?”

“Oh…oh yeah…yeah…okay,” I say, nodding, but I load the dishes onto the tray slowly, trying to think. “He wants it well-done, though, Anthony.”

“Okay, no problem; I’ll take care of it,” he answers.

Somehow I make it to the table, and as I approach it, there everyone sits staidly (except for the baby, her pretty blue eyes observing me), the food untouched. “Here you go,” I say to the two little boys as I place their food in front of them, which, like a magical potion, energizes them completely. But then, as if I’m trying to force down two tablespoons of the worst-tasting cough syrup you can imagine, I make eye contact with the man and say the words.

“Sir, I’m terribly, terribly sorry, but your burger isn’t quite ready yet. It’s actually a rather thick burger, a quarter pound, and it takes around thirty minutes to cook. It shouldn’t take too—”

“But it’s already been thirty minutes,” he answers abruptly. His wife and the grandmother are now staring at me too. (The boys, however—they could care less. They are in taste-bud heaven. And the little, curly-haired blonde baby…even though I’m totally stressed, I can’t help thinking that she’s just about one of the cutest things ever.)

“Like I said, I’m terribly sorry. It really shouldn’t take too much longer,” I assure him, trying to look confident, although I’m really lying (but not about the being-terribly-sorry part).

I rush back to the kitchen (boy, are my legs tired!), glancing at my other customers on the way to make sure there aren’t any crises occurring there.

“Anth!” I say, practically sliding into him. “Is there any way at all you can speed up the cooking of that burger? That guy is really not too happy.”

“Well, I did start it out in the microwave—and please don’t tell anybody about that, Jenna, especially Mary Ellen—but I just can’t cook the entire thing in there… I just can’t do it,” he confesses, shaking his head. “It’s supposed to be a char-grilled burger after all. And it just wouldn’t taste the same.”

Good ol’ Anthony. Anthony and his principles. That’s why I dig him so much.

“Yeah, Anth…that’s okay,” I respond calmly, all of a sudden perfectly at ease. “I understand—completely.”

******

Eventually, and thankfully, the infamous burger does get done, in about ten to fifteen minutes’ time. Anthony’s use of the microwave and his decision to cook the burger medium-well instead of well (it tastes much better that way anyway) really speeds up the process. During this waiting period, I have to deal with my own realization that I royally messed up, plus—despite my moment of acceptance in the kitchen—an incessant uneasiness that results from the dissatisfied gestures and drilling looks of the customers. There are moments when I feel as if I am in a straitjacket and can’t get out.

It all works out fine, though. Despite the burger’s lateness, I can tell that the gentleman really enjoys it, and everybody else seems pleased with their food as well. To my complete surprise, they even leave me a decent tip.

But that’s not the last of it. Now there is the aftermath to deal with, not only on the tables but also on the floor: french fry fragments, countless spitballs (those ornery devils), smeared ketchup, scattered napkins, melting ice cubes, crumbs galore—and much grosser things I can’t even begin to recognize.

I scrunch down under the tables—on my knees—broom in one hand, and waste bucket in the other.

******

The above excerpt is from my coming-of-age novel—The Grill on Murray Avenue: A Story of Innocence—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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