The Meeting

Personal Yummy #55

Three boxes of powdered and glazed donuts sit open on the bar. A pot of just-brewed coffee permeates the air. Nick, dressed in a blue fleece and a white ball cap and smelling good, sits facing us, his hands crossed.

“Well, guys,” he begins, “thank you for coming in.” He moves around on his stool a bit. “I realize it’s Sunday morning and everything, but I thought it’d be best to meet before we open later this afternoon… You know, to discuss some issues that have gotten quite out of hand.”

I glance at Jack, who is rubbing his bloodshot eyes. He shoots me back a questioning look. Shane, however, can’t quite seem to quit staring at the cream-filled donuts in front of him, and Bianca is gripping an empty coffee cup. The smoke in our faces comes from Diana’s third cigarette since she got here. As for Nina, she is busy removing her sparkly black scarf, with the help of Adam’s big hands. And Anth—where is he?—he hasn’t shown up.

“You see,” Nick says, removing his cap, “to get right to it, and to not waste your time this morning, I know that Bobby and I have always been pretty lenient about you guys drinking a Pepsi or a glass of juice or whatever you want while you work—and as many as you want, too…”

We all nod. The constant supply of caffeine and sugar definitely keeps us going.

“But, the truth is, guys, we need to be professional about it… Over the past couple of months, we’ve become way, way too casual. You know, what I’m trying to say is, this is a respected establishment and we need to think a little more about our actions and how those actions affect customers’ perceptions of this establishment.”

Just then, Anthony walks—stumbles—in. “Sorry, Nick,” he says, as he climbs onto a stool, using Bianca’s shoulder for support. We all look at him, trying not to laugh, except for Shane, whose hand is inching, sort of like a caterpillar, toward you know where.

“As I was saying,” Nick continues, at the same time giving Anthony a look conveying that he could care less about his lateness (they’ve had some palpable male bond ever since they got crazy drunk together that one night quite a while ago at the Decade), “there will be no more sitting your beverage of choice on the secondary bar while you work—in plain sight of everybody—and especially no more taking a swig, or a sip, or a gulp, or a—you choose what to call it—out here on the floor. From now on, that will be reserved for the kitchen area only. Nobody needs to see it… And I mean it, guys, for the kitchen area only. Got it?” He pauses for a moment, then places his cap snugly back on his head. “And, of course,” he adds, again lifting his cap up for just a second and placing it back on his head again, “it goes without saying that Curt and I will do the same.”

“Sounds fair,” Shane says, shrugging his shoulders, as his hand makes a dive into the closest box of donuts.

“But there’s one more thing,” Nick says, with a glare in Shane’s direction. Shane retrieves his hand suddenly. He glances around, caught unawares, apparently at a loss of what to do with his empty, powder-covered fingers.

“This eating-and-snacking-in-the-kitchen habit while you’re on the clock—you know, the mess-ups, the extras, the taste tests, the ‘he changed his order,’ the ‘she doesn’t want it,’ the whatever—it’s stopping today.”

Quite flabbergasted, we all drill him with our eyes. Even Shane looks shocked. He inadvertently sticks his fingers in his mouth.

“Well, guys, c’mon,” Nick says, sensing our absolute reluctance to the idea. “I mean, I’m not going to pretend. You guys know as well as anyone how much I like to eat, and I, too, thoroughly enjoy taking a bite out of a tasty New York strip that was cooked a little too much, or trying a new version of wings that Mare has concocted—especially those jalapeño-lime ones she made that—”

“Yeah, they were damn good,” Shane interrupts, emphasizing his expletive with a smack of his fist on the bar, an action quite out of his character.

“But,” Nick continues, trying his best to ignore this last interjection, although his utterly wrinkled forehead betrays him, “you do all have to admit that it takes your mind off of serving our customers, and it’s really not all that sanitary…and besides, the biggest problem is that it stops the flow and causes too much traffic in the kitchen, and even sometimes not enough coverage out here on the floor. We just can’t have that. So, as I said, it stops today… Period.”

“Okay, Nick,” Anthony says in his slumped-over position, his voice but a whisper. We all collectively shoot him a “What in the hell are you agreeing to?” look.

“Well,” he says, his eyes barely open, “I work in the kitchen, you know. It does get freakin’ crowded in there sometimes. A little more breathing room would be nice.” Apparently, he has used all his energy to defend himself. Exhausted, he lays his head on the bar.

“Well, after five years of doing that,” Bianca says, running her finger around the rim of her still-empty mug, into which she is blankly gazing, “it’ll certainly be a hard habit to break.”

“I agree, Bea,” Jack says, shaking his head, his long hair moving freely.

Me, I don’t know what to say, so I just sit there wondering how I’m going to survive not eating anything until I have time to take a break, or—when it’s extremely busy—until after my shift is over, especially after having danced all day.

“Well, if that’s the new rule, that’s the new rule,” Adam contends, at the same time wrapping his arm around Nina’s waist.

“Yeah…I guess… I mean…what can you do?” Nina adds, unconsciously playing with her large, silver hoop earring.

“Well, then,” Nick replies, getting ready to stand up, “good… And don’t forget, it’s in effect—immediately… And, guys, there’s one last thing…”

We all look at each other, wondering what horror will befall us next.

“Oh, good god, Nick.” Shane stands up abruptly, throwing his hands in the air. “I mean, really, how long are you going to make me suffer? Can’t I just take a bite already?”

Nick stands up too and laughs. “Go for it,” he says. “And enjoy it while you can.”

Shane seizes a donut and devours it greedily.

******

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.

Available where books are sold…