Personal Yummy #88
“Damn it!” Diana yells—rather explosively, in fact—a scowl appearing upon her face, a tempting iced café mocha resting in her hand. “I guess this will just have to wait.”
I’ve just returned from one of my Saturday-evening jaunts to the 61C to pick up specialty coffee drinks for the employees and regulars who wanted them, compliments of Curt. It goes without saying that Diana, who is waiting tables tonight, absolutely loves iced mochas. Anytime I hand the cold, perspiring drink to her, she immediately gulps down the rich, smooth, fulfilling liquid, a lustiness in her eyes.
Now, however, is a different story. She is in the midst of waiting on the entire nonsmoking section (eight tables in all!), which filled up in the short time I was away.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, and then she abruptly heads toward the kitchen.
When she returns, in what seems like two seconds’ time, we get to work. I help her as much as I can by preparing salads, taking drink orders, and clearing off tables. She manages most of it by herself, though, her quick movements accentuated by her characteristic hisses, stares, and uninhibited boldness.
After about half an hour, the craziness seems to subside a bit. “Thank God,” I mumble. I grab my iced mocha, which is sitting beside an unfinished Pittsburgh Post-Gazette crossword puzzle that Diana was apparently working on before she got so busy.
Earlier, when I returned from the coffee run, I placed my drink on the small maroon counter that runs along the wall to the right as you enter the restaurant. It’s opposite of the main bar and is lined with three or four stools. We store the menus and extra place settings on top of this counter, and we hang out here when business is slow, waiting for more customers to arrive. And, as I’ve mentioned before, it works as a kind of ancillary bar as well. Customers sometimes sit here, especially if the main bar is full.
Instead of drinking my mocha here, in plain sight of all the customers, which Nick would certainly frown upon, I carry it to the back of the restaurant, where I can be out of view. I stop in the small vestibule that leads to the kitchen. In this area is a refrigerator with a clear glass door, in which we store salad dressings, desserts, and miniature containers of butter and half-and-half.
There is also a well-worn, chipping baker’s table that Bobby bought for us at Staples or IKEA or someplace like that (one of those tables that you get in a box and have to put together), on which we prepare the salads and the desserts. (We initially had been using a large round tray that was situated upon one of those precarious folding tray stands: an accident waiting to happen! Put too much weight on one end and—bingo!) To the right of the baker’s table are built-into-the-wall wooden shelves, on which we store napkins, straws, doilies, tiny silver teapots, boxes of place mats, and anything else made of paper that is of use in a restaurant.
I lean against the wooden shelves, glad to have a moment of privacy to enjoy my drink, which is becoming more watery by the second, when I see what appears to be another iced mocha, placed snugly in a corner of the baker’s table.
That must be Diana’s. Poor thing…she hasn’t even had a chance to take a sip yet.
I continue to enjoy my drink, periodically glancing around the corner to the front of the restaurant to see if I am needed.
A few minutes later, Diana appears. She is sweating, part of her blue polo shirt is untucked in the front, and a bunch of grease stains are apparent. There is also a curious look in her eye. She glances at her iced mocha, at the half-gone iced mocha in my right hand, and then at me.
“Okay, Jenna. I see how it is. Here I am, worn out from running around, and you’re going to drink yours and then sneak a few gulps out of mine, aren’t ya?” she says, feigning an inordinate and impressive amount of anger. “Well, we’ll see about…”
She locks her jaw, tightens her hands into fists, places them in front of her, leans to the side, lifts up her right leg—as if she is a black belt (which really, in all truthfulness, wouldn’t surprise me)—and shoots her foot forward…
“…THAT!!!!!”
“Diana!”
To the complete surprise of both of us—WHACK!!!—ice cubes, milk, whipped cream, chocolate, coffee—and the cardboard cup that held it all!—fly out of my hand and land on the floor, the shelves, the baker’s table, the bathroom door, and—oh yeah—me!
I stand there, quite flabbergasted, I must say.
Unexpectedly, the iced mocha took the ride of its life. But even more unexpectedly, Rambo Woman of Terror immediately and magically turns into a wide-eyed little girl right in front of me, shrinking into herself and asking for my forgiveness, holding her untouched mocha toward me, begging me to accept it as a peace offering.
“Dear god, Jenna… I’m so, so sorry!”
Just then, Curt appears, on his way to the kitchen. He stops abruptly, seeing me clad in mocha, the sweet liquid dripping from my hair and running down my face.
“What in the hell happened here?!… And why are you all wet?” he asks, thoroughly amused.
I relay the story to him, and from that moment on, I know that Diana will never hear the end of it.
******
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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