The Infamous Mary Ellen

Personal Yummy #59

Working the day shift, I heard through the grapevine about the infamous Mary Ellen, the kitchen manager and evening-shift cook.

But what was possibly hinted at more fearfully than she herself was her temper.

Yes, that’s right—her temper.

From what everyone told me, I eventually began to think that it was an otherworldly entity that floated about and covered the walls of the small, cramped—but nonetheless, cozy—kitchen of The Grill on Murray Avenue.

I used to wonder, however, what in the hell everyone was talking about. I would see Mary Ellen for a few minutes here and there, when I was ending my shift around five and she was just arriving to prepare for the evening. She’d lazily but proudly walk through the front door, half a smile on her face—which was usually flushed from the heat—a white headband placed securely in her short, but full, red hair. She’d be wearing a large, white, baggy T-shirt, either white shorts or white sweatpants, and white, well-worn tennis shoes, and she’d carry a small knapsack over her shoulder.

She was always friendly enough to me, usually casually saying, “Hi how are ya doin’ tonight?” and then she’d continue on her way, saying hello to others, which took a while at that time of day (during happy hour), when a lot of the regulars came in to hang out.

Finally, though, she’d make it back to the kitchen to begin her preparatory work. I did notice that she became irritated every now and then, like everybody does, but it was not nearly to the extent that I had heard rumored.

Well…

How many times have you been told that you really don’t know someone until you live with them? The same goes for working with someone, at least as far as I’m concerned. Oh yeah, now that I’ve been working the evening shift, my mind has been changed…and quite completely.

That otherworldly entity is for real.

“MORE SAUCE!!! What do you mean MORE SAUCE??!! If he wants any more than this, you’re going to have to charge him for it! Do you hear me??!!” And then ten minutes later: “Too BLAND! Is that what she said? That’s how I always serve it, and everyone loves it!… These damn, fuckin’ customers—I’ve had about enough!!!”

Mary Ellen, Mary Ellen. I’ve never met someone who is so not afraid to speak her opinion and to tell you exactly what she is thinking—in a clear, forthright, utterly bold voice too.

As I just conveyed, she is especially vocal whenever a customer complains about a meal that she has prepared, whether the complaint is “This isn’t hot enough,” “This is too tough,” “This has no flavor,” etcetera, etcetera, etcetera… Anyone who has ever had the pleasure of working in the food-service industry is undoubtedly well aware of not only the varying and large number of complaints that exist, but also of the sheer asininity of a lot of them. And, in Mary Ellen’s view, almost all of the complaints are asinine, whether they are merited or not, and particularly when she is in an even feistier mood than usual.

In fact, whenever any of us waiters and waitresses arrive for the evening, one of the first things we find out, besides what the soup of the day is and which section we are scheduled to work in, is the “Mary Ellen Daily Report”: “What kind of mood is she in today?” we secretly whisper to each other (like a bunch of worker bees), trying to discover her current temper level, wanting to know whether it is somewhat in control or flowing with full force.

Once in a while, whenever a customer complains, I can assuage him or her and fix the problem myself, which I always try to do. Most of the time, though, I have to consult Mary Ellen. It’s not as if I can walk back into the kitchen (“her” kitchen, as she calls it) and dip out more sauce, or throw a steak on the grill to cook it a bit more, without her permission (unless, of course, she has stepped out of the kitchen for a few moments and I can surreptitiously and quickly do it!).

For me, it is often a test of personal fortitude to relay a complaint or a request to her.

First, I have to build up the nerve to walk back there; second, I have to actually open up my mouth and force the words out; and third, I have to brace myself for her reaction, which I can never predict.

A lot of times she completely surprises me with her calmness, giving me exactly what I need with no confrontation at all: “Okay, no problem, Jenna; here you go,” she’ll say as she hands me a few more carrots for the vegetable tray or another scallion for the grilled chicken salad. But some nights, be on guard!—especially when it is really busy. The last thing that we waiters and waitresses want to be is the messenger of bad news to Mary on a chaotic Friday or Saturday night. The unspoken motto seems to be: “Prepare yourself for flying cookware!”

No, but really, I’ve never seen her aim at anybody; she will at least yell “WATCH OUT!!!!!” before she flings a hot, steaming pot across the kitchen and into the overflowing sink, as either Richard (one of our dishwashers who occasionally cooks) or Anthony ducks out of the way.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Marty, her friendly, good-natured husband, told me, when I was joking with him one night at the bar, talking about the pot-throwing incidents. He had just finished his shift at the Gulf Station nearby and was enjoying a few Buds, as he often does. “She’s really mellowed compared to a few years ago,” he said. “In fact, a while back, some major dynamite had exploded in that kitchen,” he added, chuckling.

“I don’t doubt it,” I replied, laughing also, and imagining what kitchen havoc she had wreaked.

But you know what?

The more I work with Mary Ellen, the less I am intimidated by her, and the more I like and understand her. Her explosive reactions are honestly quite amusing now (most of the time, anyway) and make some otherwise mundane evenings a lot of fun. And I’ve begun to learn what kind of things she is amenable to (even though she complains the entire time she is doing them), and what kind of things she will completely refuse to do without even a second thought.

Which reminds me of a game we play whenever a customer requests something completely bizarre, irrational, or unexpected.

It all started the night a customer asked me if we could do him a small favor. He would like to order the penne with marinara sauce, he began, but with a slight change. Could we divide his bowl of penne (you know, the usual amount) into four smaller sections, topping one with marinara, another with alfredo, the third with sun-dried tomato pesto, and the last with olive oil and garlic only? (No, I’m not making this up.) I really think I stared at him for a moment, quite unintentionally, but I was rather amazed that he thought we could be so accommodating, and I knew, from experience, that Mary might fall over dead if I asked her, or, if not do that, let loose all the pots and pans from their hooks, and maybe (God forbid) even a few knives.

So, to put up a good front and please the customer, I replied, in my sweetest voice, “Well, I’m not sure about that, but let me ask the cook for you and see what she says…okay?” I walked back to the kitchen, got Mary Ellen’s attention, and said to her, in the bluntest, most convincing, most there-can-be-no-other-answer tone, “Mare, just tell me no.” She looked squarely back at me, seemed to instantly understand me, and without a glint of hesitation said no.

From then on, it’s been a game of ours, but it works so well. Anytime a customer requests something ludicrous, infuriating, or downright insulting, something I know that Mare will answer with, “Are you SERIOUS? There’s NO WAY!” I simply save the time and energy of both of us and play “The ‘Tell Me No’ Game.” And, most importantly, the customer at least thinks that I’m giving his or her request my best effort.

Given this friendliness that’s grown between us, and the increase in my relaxation on the job, I’m really beginning to understand Mary Ellen and the motives behind her fiery reactions. In all honesty, I was at first seriously taken aback at how she reacted to many situations. Isn’t “the customer is always right” the motto that employees of the service industry are supposed to follow? Personally, I am much more laid back and try not to get so bent out of shape when someone complains (well, at least on the outside I don’t).

But, the more I’ve thought about it and tried to understand, I’ve realized that I’m not the person who prepares the meals that the people are complaining about—I “just” serve them. To Mary Ellen, these dishes are her creations, her designs, her trophies, her dance steps, the results of her heart, mind, and hands.

She is utterly proud of her cooking, a proudness that, I would venture to say, borders on cockiness. It is almost as if her knowing blue eyes and her attitude collectively say, “No one in this city cooks better than I do—no one,” even though she has never come right out and said that. She probably feels this way because although there are complaints, as there are with anyone and anything, the majority of the time the customers are extremely happy with her cooking. They even wander back to the kitchen and tell her so: “That steak was done just perfect, Mary Ellen” or “Those chicken breasts were juicy and tasty, the best I’ve eaten.”

To tell you the truth, I don’t know how many times I’ve waited on customers and, before I’ve taken their order, they’ve asked, “Mary Ellen’s cooking tonight, isn’t she?” I’ve really gotten the feeling that many of the customers come to The Grill on the evenings when they know Mary will be working. It’s no wonder that she has such confidence in herself.

She is also a stickler for presentation, cleanliness, and freshness. The dishes she sends out are totally attractive. I often see her use a clean white cloth to wipe off a bit of oil, mayo, or grease that has fallen from a sandwich and has marred the appearance of the clean ceramic plate it is sitting upon. She also wipes off any extra oil that has splattered on the edge of the large white pasta dishes that have just been filled with hearty pasta.

And, after the kitchen closes each night, she makes sure (even if she doesn’t do it all herself) that the many utensils, knives, dishes, and pots are cleaned and neatly put away, and that the grill, counters, and kitchen floor are scrubbed and shiny. She gives any leftover soup to me or to any of the other employees who want to take it home (but there often isn’t too much remaining!), or prepares a Styrofoam cupful for her friend Irwin, whom she loves. She then drains the hot water from the metal bins that keep the soup hot during the evening, and wipes them down until they are glistening.

In fact, Mary Ellen enjoys preparing fresh, new soups each day, such as her flavorful, cold gazpacho or her well-loved chicken noodle soup, full of big pieces of juicy chicken and vegetables. Many times I see her standing over a steaming pot of chicken stock, as she stirs the liquid with a big wooden spoon and inhales the delicious aroma.

There is also my favorite, her thick, delicious cream of mushroom, to which she always adds a touch of Burgundy (I often bring back a glass of Burgundy from the bar for her when she is making it). She knows that I love this soup, so she always makes sure that I get a cup to take home if there is any left over. On the nights when this soup is available and I ladle out a cup or bowl of the mixture full of juicy, whole mushrooms for a customer, my mouth waters and I can’t wait for the end of the evening so that I can enjoy a bowl.

Of course, some nights I end up being disappointed because we run out of the soup, which is certainly great for business, but not so great for me! And then, as everyone knows, accidents happen.

I vividly remember the night that there was half of a large container of the cream of mushroom soup left—business had been extremely slow. “Wow, Mare!” I said, lifting the soup container’s metal lid and peering inside. “There sure is a lot of soup left!”

“Yeah, I know…” she responded, from her usual position near the grill. “Would you like to take it home with you? I know that you really like this kind.”

“That would be great! I’d really love that.”

I was truly happy about it, because I knew that the soup would supply a few lunches for me. It is so filling and creamy that a bowl of it practically fills me up.

Mary Ellen came over and proceeded to lift the plastic container filled with the soup out of the water-filled metal bin that it was kept in to keep it hot. As she did so, with her other hand she removed the metal bin’s lift-off top, which was equipped with two, rimmed openings that kept the container of soup and a container of pesto sauce (which she had previously removed) in place. “Okay, well, here you—” she began to say, and then…

SPLASH!!!

The container had slipped out of Mary’s cloth-protected hand, fell into the bin of water, and tipped over, causing all of the soup to spill and liquefy. It quickly no longer looked like cream of mushroom soup but “mushrooms swimming for their lives” soup.

“Shit!” Mary yelled. “Well, there goes that…holy shit!… I’m really sorry about that, Jenna. I guess you won’t be taking any home now!” she said, trying to lighten the situation.

“Oh well—that’s okay,” I replied quietly. I was disappointed, but what more could I say? I would just have to wait until the next time.

One dinner item that Mary Ellen prepares that I’ve never gotten to take home is her barbecue ribs, because we invariably run out of them a few hours before closing. It was last summer that she and Bobby first introduced The Grill’s “Backyard BBQ Night,” which took place every Thursday. Well, it was so popular that they’re having it again this coming summer.

Brightly colored sheets advertise the specials, which we hand out in addition to the regular menu. Clear, black text is printed upon pages of deep red, green, orange, and yellow, which definitely grab the customers’ attention. The main specials are a rack of ribs; a half rack of ribs with a boneless breast of barbecue-glazed chicken; and a Polish sausage sandwich. Each special comes with coleslaw, potato salad, and a thick, juicy piece of watermelon—oh!, and we mustn’t forget, a small plastic container of rich barbecue sauce for dipping.

Many customers return Thursday after Thursday for the flavorful and extremely tender ribs, which makes Mary even more proud of her ribs than she already is. “It’s my secret method of cooking the ribs that makes them so tender,” she says, without actually letting anyone in on what that method is. She even goes so far as to claim that they are “the best ribs in all of Pittsburgh.”

What do I think about them?

Well, I haven’t made it a habit to go around to all of the restaurants in Pittsburgh that offer ribs on their menu, and to try them and compare them, but I’ll have to say that Mary Ellen’s are excellent and fall right off the bone. The few samples that she’s given me to taste were delicious, and I enjoyed them thoroughly.

The thing I don’t enjoy, however (since we are on the subject), is carrying those specials out on the trays! One order of ribs completely covers one large plate, and then there are all of the individual side dishes as well. To serve a table of four is quite challenging! I often have to make several trips back to the kitchen to serve a table this size, when usually with other meals I have to make only one or two!

It’s true that this theme night does bring in a lot of business, but we waiters and waitresses definitely work for any extra money that we make because of it. It tickles Mary pink, though (literally), and she takes off her apron and often walks right out to the tables (almost swankily, if you can imagine someone being swanky in shorts and an old T-shirt) and asks the customers how they are enjoying her ribs.

They gloat over them—naturally—and she nods and smiles just as confidently as ever.

Not only is Mare a wonderful cook, but she’s a wonderful mother figure as well. You would think that an independent, fiery, fly-off-the-handle type (such as she is) would have no use for the little ones.

But that is the furthest thing from the truth.

She loves children. Never having any of her own (for what reason, I don’t have a clue), she treats other people’s with great kindness and love, especially Nick and Cathy’s boys, Nick Junior and Billy. She adores those kids, and she watches them and takes care of them whenever she is needed, or even when she’s not. She even goes to watch Little Nick’s ball games, rooting for him with a mother’s intensity.

She is also so kind to these two precious, big-eyed, dark-haired, utterly beautiful little girls who come in to eat quite often with their mom, dad, and uncle. The dad and uncle come in first, sit in the nonsmoking section in the booth farthest from the bar, and order a dozen barbecue wings as their appetizer, and draft beers and Johnny Walker Reds on the rocks to drink. Believe it or not, the dad’s name is Glen Campbell. “Look at what his name is, Curt!” I said one early evening as I held his credit card up to Curt’s face.

“Yeah, I know—aren’t you lucky? You’re waiting on someone famous,” Curt joked with me, grinning.

The uncle, who is tall and thin and always comes into the bar wearing a ball cap, is very shy and reticent, but very, very kind and gentle. He has sort of a stutter, and it is really quite an effort for him to get his words out, although he never relies on anyone to order for him.

“Joh—John—Jo—Johnny Walker—Red—on—th—the—the—rocks, pl—pl—please,” he’ll say (or some variation of that), looking straight at me with his brown, unassuming, innocent eyes, always thanking me when I return with his drink and as I proceed to place a small, square bar napkin in front of him and then place the rocks glass full of red scotch down on top of it.

About half an hour to forty-five minutes later, the attractive, thin, dark-haired, professional-looking mother with glasses arrives with the two little girls, one on each side of her, holding each one’s hand. It is never too long before I see and hear the girls lightly pawing their mother and whispering, “Can we now, Mommy—can we?”

“Well, you should really wait until you are finished with your dinner, but I guess you can go ahead,” she replies.

The two little girls slide off of the booth and slowly and hesitantly walk down the steps and in the direction of the kitchen. The older girl, who is five, clasps her hands behind her back and nods her head slightly forward, but raises her eyes upward, as she walks. The younger three-and-a-half-year-old runs her small hand along the dividing wall in the center of the restaurant, as if she is looking for moral support.

Once they reach the edge of the entranceway to the kitchen, however, together they yell “Mary!” as loud as they can, which actually comes out like a whisper because they are so tiny, sweet, and shy. Then they wait patiently, and expectantly.

“Oh, hello there, you two sweeties,” Mary says in her softest voice when she notices them standing there. “How are you today?”

“Fine,” they say in unison, rocking back and forth.

“Well, just wait one minute. I just think there may be something waiting downstairs for you.”

The two little angels look wide-eyed at each other, wondering what is coming.

In a few minutes, Mary returns, holding a few packs of candy in her hands, sometimes gummy bears or jelly beans, other times lollipops. She offers the treats to the children, and they take them slowly, almost uncertain that they should be doing it, even though this scenario has been repeated so many times before.

The fact is, they are disciplined, good kids, and I think that’s what Mary likes so much about them. Even though they are so young, they don’t assume that they should get a gift no matter what, but seem to really appreciate and look forward to these special moments.

Mary deliberately brings in the candy from home for them. There’s been once or twice when she hasn’t had anything to give them—“Oh, I completely forgot,” she said in one instance, after they had walked away empty-handed, the distress apparent in her face. “I feel so, so bad about this…”

But most of the time she always has something fun and yummy to give them.

“Thanks, Mary,” they say, a glow on their adorable faces. Then they turn around happily, and quickly walk back to their seats, studying their new treasures on the way. “Look, Daddy and Mommy; look what Mary gave us! Can we open it?”

Mary walks out a few minutes later, and she peers over the dividing wall into the nonsmoking section. She leans against the wall and relaxes her arms and hands on the wall’s ledge. She smiles and says hello to the grownups and chats about the two little girls, praising them for their manners, saying how well-behaved and respectful they are.

This ritual of brightening the children’s day, connecting with them on their level—she is so proud of it. It is a high that appears to surpass even the high she gets from her cooking. And I can see why.

Out of all of her talents for making one delicious meal after another, managing a kitchen, being funny, and being a good friend, I am the most impressed with her talent for making the sweet little girls smile.

******

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…