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Walter

Personal Yummy #27

Walter Photo

In many respects, Walter is The Grill’s Norm. Like the well-known character, he stops in for a drink just about as often and is known by just as many people. And even though he isn’t nearly as “healthy” as Norm was, the evidence of his daily consumption is there (sorry, Walter). But instead of hearing “Walter!” in unison as “Norm!” was heard time and again on Cheers, when Walter walks through the door you hear “Hi Walter What’s up Walter Good evening Walter Hey Walter”—greetings from about eight to twelve people, from this corner and that, one after another, often overlapping each other—as Walter’s nods and accepting eyes recognize the words falling through the air.

His ritual after being greeted by practically everyone in the place is to remove his long wool black coat and either hang it on the shiny gold coat rack or put it on the back of a bar stool, remove his black beret and place it on the bar, and take his white handkerchief out of his pant pocket, adroitly remove his glasses, and quickly but gently massage his lenses with that handkerchief, holding it between his thumb and index finger, removing the spots that have formed during the day or the moisture that has been put there by the rain. When it’s nice outside, he simply has a light jacket to take care of, or nothing at all. But no matter what time of year it is, whether he is dressed in a conservative black suit and tie or a pair of faded blue jeans, a white pinstriped button-up cotton shirt, and old tennis shoes, he never forgets to quickly take a black comb from his pocket and, with a swift motion, smooth the top layer of his hair back, away from his forehead, covering the bald spot that is beginning to appear, as his eyes once again greet everyone and take in the mood of the setting in an instant.

“A shot and a beer, please.” That’s all Walter has to say as he pulls out a bar stool and sits down upon it. Whoever is behind the bar knows exactly what to give him: a CC on the rocks and an Iron City. Sometimes he stays for one round of drinks, sometimes many, depending on the day of the week and the time of day. During the week he usually stops in between four and six, to take advantage of happy hour, coming from work or having just returned from the airport and a business trip. Walter is a lawyer (a very good one, as far as I can tell) and fairly well-known in Squirrel Hill. Recently he was named “Squirrel Hill Citizen of the Year,” an honor he is very proud of. So our Walter is very different from Norm when it comes to the career world. He is definitely not a slacker, as Cheers’ Norm was portrayed to be. But, like Norm, he is a constant friendly face sitting at the bar, and he enjoys the refreshment and taste of a good beer—there’s no doubt about that. I don’t know if Walter is aware of this, but each and every time he takes a tasty swig of his beer or a generous sip of CC, he swishes the liquid around in his mouth, quickly swallows, and then satisfyingly smacks his tongue and the roof of his mouth together several times in succession, finishing the familiar, enjoyable procedure by quickly licking his top lip and the mustache that protects it. His right hand then finds a familiar spot on top of his blond-gray beard and scratches for an instant, and then returns to resting on top of the bar. A flash of contentment appears in his kind eyes.

Walter especially enjoys hanging out at The Grill on Friday nights, particularly ever since his favorite Friday-night hangout, the Decade, closed. The Decade was an intimate rock and roll club on Atwood Street in Oakland, near The University of Pittsburgh. Rock stars such as Bruce Springsteen, U2, and the Iron City Houserockers performed there. The walls were covered with sheet music and rock paraphernalia, including an autographed photo of Jon Bon Jovi. A small, silver metal bucket that hung above the heads of the bartenders accepted tip after tip. Quickly, pointy corners of green could be seen reaching out of the bucket. And everyone in the place knew when a tip was being pushed into it. “Drop the tip, ring the cowbell” was the bartenders’ ritual. It was a sad day when the Decade’s doors closed, and it seems as if customers who were regulars there now come to The Grill for comfort. There is no ringing of a cowbell here, but there are plenty of smiles and good laughter and the playing of soulful blues and jazz on the music system, especially when Curt is behind the bar.

Walter also appears here on Saturday afternoons, around two or three, and stays for a couple of hours, visiting Adam, Anthony, and me, always curious to see what interesting movie Adam has decided upon by surfing through the channels of that old, dusty TV that sits high atop the beer cooler. “Well, you have your choice of a Western, an Elvis flick, or Talk Soup. What d’ya think?” Adam asks me, Saturday after Saturday, when we are both finished with our opening duties, waiting for the lunch crowd to arrive. Of course, the movie choices vary each week, but it is surprising what an eclectic mix we have to choose from.

Anthony also appears from the kitchen to say hello to Walter when he has a moment and there aren’t too many customers in the place, dressed in his white T-shirt; white, full-bodied, stained apron; gray sweatpants; and ominous, black, metal-toed shoes (“For safety, in case I drop anything heavy on my feet,” he explained to me once, “like a gigantic pot full of soup or a sharp knife”). On many occasions he asks Walter for advice and info about landlord and tenant rights and responsibilities because, unfortunately, he is often having problems with his landlord. Walter is always very helpful. It is obvious that he gets enormous pleasure from elaborating on any subject that comes up in conversation that he is knowledgeable about, which, in fact, is just about anything you can think of. No kidding. Whenever someone has a question, you will hear—it never fails—“Ask Walter.” I often think that it must be so cool to be equated with an encyclopedia. Not only is Walter The Grill’s Norm, but he is also The Grill’s Webster.

However, Walter is often rewarded for his knowledge and advice. After the lunch crowd disappears, Anth brings out a medium-sized Styrofoam container filled with the homemade soup of the day, sometimes chicken noodle, with large, tender pieces of chicken breast; cream of mushroom, flavored with a touch of Burgundy (Mary Ellen’s specialty); or beef barley, rich and hearty. He hands the soup to Walter—“Want some soup, Walter?”—and Walter always graciously accepts.

Usually Walter comes to the bar alone on Saturday afternoons, but every once in a while during the summer he walks in, followed by his tall, skinny, somewhat-shy fourteen-year-old daughter, Kristen, who is decked out in rollerblades, shorts, and windblown golden-blonde hair. “We’re here for some quality father and daughter time,” Walter says with a smile, as he gestures to the two-seater closest to the front window.

They hang out for a couple of hours, casually chatting and gazing out of the window, Walter relishing his usual round of drinks, and Kristen enjoying a pretty, pink Shirley Temple with lots of cherries (in a highball glass with a straw), and either crispy chicken fingers with both honey mustard and barbecue dipping sauce, or tender, cheesy, gooey potato skins with refreshing sour cream. It is such a happy and comforting sight to witness and be a part of (I wait on them often): a father and daughter feeling comfortable enough to spend some time alone together and learn more about each other; a father feeling secure enough to drink in front of his daughter and to share with her his favorite place to hang out; a daughter not embarrassed about being seen with her father. What particularly impacts me is the mixture of the innocence (the pink of the Shirley Temple) and the maturity (father and daughter enjoying a drink together in a grown-up place). After all, I think, as I watch the two of them together, that’s what life should be all about. You should grow and learn, improving yourself, yet never lose touch with the innocence and idealism within you that makes life so special and inspires you to reach and grow in the first place.

Frequently, Walter’s stay is cut short on Saturday afternoons because he has “an appointment with the kitchen,” as he puts it. Either it is his turn to make dinner for his family, or he is going to help prepare a fancy meal for a dinner party that he and his wife, Katy, are hosting later that evening. Elaborate dishes such as duck à l’orange and coq au vin come to life in Walter’s kitchen. I’ve never visited Walter’s home, but he’s told me that he owns one of those very large, old, full-of-character Squirrel Hill houses that have multiple floors. He once said that he can be on the fourth floor working in his library and feel as if he is the only one home, even though his son and daughter are watching TV on the second floor and his wife is in the bedroom reading. The house’s expansiveness, which allows for privacy and calm when he needs them, is one of the aspects that Walter particularly loves about the house and about living there.

I sometimes imagine what Walter’s dinner parties are like. In my mind, doctors, lawyers, and psychiatrists comfortably sit at the rectangular, glossy, cherry table, which is adorned in the center with a crystal vase full of bright gold, red, and purple flowers. The red of the flowers matches the women’s red lips, and the gold matches some of the men’s shiny ties, which hang loosely around their necks. The guests, as well as the china, glasses, and silverware, are elegant and refined, but not pompous or overbearing. There is a happiness and brightness in the room, enhanced by the light from the simple chandelier, which reflects off the silverware and puts a glow on each person’s face. Statements and questions such as “Mmm…this is really delicious,” “How’s business, Walter?” “The flowers are so beautiful,” and “Has your son decided upon a college yet?” intermingle and flow, as course after course are presented and then enjoyed.

After dinner, the friends sit on the soft, white couches, surrounded by rows and rows of literature arranged on wooden bookshelves that line the walls. They drink Burgundy, cognac, and Baileys Irish Cream—and, of course, a CC on the rocks is present. The lounging and chatting lasts until ten or ten-thirty; then, just as smoothly and easily as the evening has progressed, the guests give their thanks, say their goodbyes, and leave the warm, enticing household. Walter and his wife smile at one another and exchange a soft, sweet kiss, acknowledging that the evening has been a success.

Whether Walter’s dinner parties are like this at all, I really don’t know—I’ve never conveyed these particular musings to him. But I often think that I picture his dinner parties to be this way because my reflections are an embodiment of what Walter is—elegant and refined, intelligent and sophisticated, yet laid-back and friendly: the best of both worlds. He doesn’t limit himself to certain types of people or places but feels free to associate with both the professional sphere and the service sphere, with his lawyer colleagues and with young waitresses like me who are working to put themselves through school and are aspiring to unconventional paths in life.

In fact, Walter always gives me a boost and is encouraging to me, because he seems to be genuinely interested in my life and the goals I am pursuing. It’s amazing how much someone can give to you—confidence, worth, inspiration—simply by taking an interest in you and your interests. I especially need a motivational boost now, because a little more than two months ago I began my adventure (or should I say, crucible) at Point Park College, on my way to attaining a dance degree. The dance classes are difficult and extremely demanding, the students I am taking classes with are so talented and much better trained than I am (as I expected), and I am tired (to put it mildly), dancing anywhere from three to five hours per day, then waitressing two to three nights per week on top of that. It’s been very socially challenging for me as well. I’m a few years older than most of the dance students there (I already have one BA, having received an English degree from Chatham College not too long ago), and I really don’t fit into any particular “group.” The freshmen all stick together, and the upperclassmen have already made their set of friends. Some of the dancers, particularly the better, highly trained ones, can be deliberately unkind as well. Plus, unlike when I was attending Chatham, I now live off-campus, so I haven’t had the opportunity to get to know anyone outside of class time (although I guess I could probably make more of an effort). I am particularly shy and introverted, too (it’s getting to be more of a problem as time goes on), which obviously doesn’t help. And to make it even worse, the dance department recently took an informal survey of its students, with categories ranging from “the funniest dancer” to “the shyest dancer.” Well, I was one of the people listed under “the shyest dancer” category. Luckily, I don’t think I won.

Given the difficulty I’m having (to be completely honest, I’ve had quite a few crying bouts in my apartment before heading out to the bus stop in the morning!), Walter has truly been a comfort. “Are you physically and mentally dealing with all of the classes okay?” “What classes are you taking this semester?” and “Are you going to be in any shows soon?” are all questions he asks me. It certainly helps to have someone to talk to about my life at Point Park, because I don’t feel that I know anyone well enough at the college yet to discuss things with. The best thing he’s said to me, however, is what he told me just last week. “You look and seem a lot more energetic and healthy now,” he began. “The first month or so, you really looked like you were dragging, but you seem to be handling the rigorous schedule much, much better now. Good for you, Jenna. Good for you.” I appreciate those sentiments the most, because he’s affirmed my own feelings that I am improving, am facing the challenge I’ve set up for myself, and will eventually be able to achieve what I so yearn to achieve.

So thanks, Walter. You’ve done so much for me, simply by being yourself: concerned and curious, genuine and friendly.

I won’t forget it.

******

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, an idealistic, ambitious waitress who is at the center of it all.

A Holiday Treat (times two)

Personal Yummy #26

The following holiday story is from my novel, The Grill on Murray Avenue. I hope you enjoy it. It is a story of friendship and generosity.

Happy holidays!

image_1I walk in, draped in a winter coat, mittens, and my furry, rebellious brown hat, with its tattered strings peeking out everywhere (my mom hates it when I wear it), and Bianca hands me an envelope with “Jenna” written on it in fancy, perfect letters. “What’s this?” I ask, surprised.

“Just a little something for the holidays,” Bianca replies in a soft voice, touching me lightly on the arm.

I’ve come to the bar in search of a nightcap—a rum and eggnog with whipped cream and a sprinkle of nutmeg adorning the top—and a bit of holiday music and chitchat.

“Oh, is this from Bobby?” I wonder aloud, as I tear off my mittens, open the envelope, and take out a thick piece of paper. I look it over for a moment, and I am happy to find that it’s a gift certificate—worth fifteen dollars—for the National Record Mart, the music store around the corner on Forbes Avenue.

“Well, actually, it’s from Curt,” Bianca whispers, glancing around.

“Really?”

“Yes. He’s giving all of us who work here one, and he’s also giving one to many of the regulars too, like Rolanda.”

“Wow! That must be expensive for him—but it’s so sweet!… And my name,” I continue, running my fingers over it, “it’s written so beautifully.”

“Oh, well…that’s all of Curt’s calligraphy training when he was a child,” Bea explains.

“Calligraphy training… Are you serious? I’ve never met anyone who’s gone through that.”

“Yeah—that’s what happens when you’re raised by your grandmother,” she says, laughing.

“Oh, I didn’t know that…did…did his parents leave him or something?” I whisper, trying to be gentle.

“Well, actually…it’s really terrible, but…when he was four years old, his parents got killed in a car accident.”

“Oh my god!” I say, as much under my breath as possible. “Poor Curt!… I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well, that’s how he is, you know. He sort of likes to keep that kind of stuff to himself. I mean,” she says, changing the subject, “take these gift certificates, for example. He does nice stuff like this but never wants to be fussed over. He’s trying not to make a big deal out of it. He doesn’t even want me to tell people who the gift certificate is from when I hand them out—thus the reason why he’s not handing them out himself—but of course I’m letting everyone in on it,” she says, grinning, and pausing for a moment. But then she begins again, almost dreamily, a faraway look in her eyes (and I’m amazed at how much she’s opening up to me tonight—it must be the topic of conversation). “Yes, you know, when we were a couple, living together—you do know that we used to be together, don’t you?”

“Well, I wasn’t quite sure, but that’s sort of what I figured,” I reply. (I thought there was something going on in the way that they familiarly engaged with each other now and again: a slight touch of the hand here, a lingering look there.)

“Oh—yeah—we were together for about five years, in fact… But… Well… Anyway… For my birthday and for Christmas—it never failed—he’d blindfold me and then lead me into the living room, slowly take the blindfold off, and then say, ‘Surprise, honey!’ And there they were, time and again. Gifts upon gifts stacked upon each other, wrapped in the most beautiful, shiny, colorful, glittering wrapping paper and bows—god were they beautiful!—and there’d be a desk one year, a computer another year, a TV the next, and the most stylish clothes and wonderfully smelling perfumes always…. Yeah, that Curt,” she says, pausing, shaking her head, “when he wants to, he certainly knows how to make you feel good.”

As she tells me this story, it makes such an impression on me, but not just the part about the lavishness with which he treated her, but most importantly the part about the wrapping and the bows. Because I’ve always thought—maybe because of some painful experiences I’ve had—that you can judge the character of a person by observing such particulars, although simple and seemingly mundane, like whether he takes the time to wrap up your presents, or just throws them in a bag (paper or plastic: in this case, it doesn’t much matter) and forgets to remove the price tag, and casually says, “I’m really sorry, but I didn’t have time to wrap them.” To me, it shows a deeper level of caring and concern if he takes the extra time to beautify something he is giving you, to show you how special and beautiful he thinks you are.

“Are you okay, Jenna?” Bianca eventually asks, looking at me inquisitively.

“Oh sure, Bea…sure… I was just thinking about what you were saying… But, anyway, thanks so much for giving this to me!” I say, holding up the gift certificate for a moment, and then lightly squeezing her hand.

“Sure, honey, my pleasure,” she says, adding that she really should get to table three and take their order. “You have a good night.”

Watching her hurry away, I take off my hat and coat, and place them on the back of a bar stool, the only one free in the place. Then I plop down on it and order my new favorite drink from Curt. And while he makes it, I decide that I have to—just have to—thank him for the gift. It was such a thoughtful thing to do.

“Really, Jenna, it was no big deal,” he says in response, as he places a goblet filled with the thick, rich deliciousness in front of me, then turns around and busies himself with opening up the cash register and making change.

So I let it go at that. It’s obvious he doesn’t need any overt recognition for his kindness, because he knows in his heart, already, what he has done.

Mature Living

Personal Yummy #25

My Column
Magazine Name
Editor's Letter

 

I am pleased to share that I am the guest columnist for the November/December 2019 issue of Mature Living, a community magazine for active seniors in Bedford County and Blair County in Pennsylvania. “Trattoria Dell’Arte,” the third installment of my blog series “A Few Days in New York City with My Mom,” is featured. I hope you enjoy this part of the story, as well as Part 1 (Feinstein’s/54 Below) and Part 2 (The Dr. Oz Show).

A Shade of Red

Personal Yummy #24

A Shade of Red

Strawberries
Raspberries
Boysenberries
and
Desire

 

Blood
Stop signs
Mountains
and
Anger

 

Cabernet
Malbec
Merlot
Velvet

 

Pomegranates
Ladybugs
Santa Claus
and
Passion

 

If red is your favorite color, you are extroverted, determined, and daring. Red is the color of attention, vitality, and strength.

Meditate today on the vibrancy of red, and on the adventure and activity that it inspires.

******

I hope you enjoyed the above musing on the color red. It is an excerpt from A Shade of Color: A Tribute to Color in Its Many Forms.

My Dance Partner

Personal Yummy #23

I seat a well-known local TV news reporter and her gentleman friend in booth seven, the second booth in the nonsmoking section. Right after that I grab the check and money from the elderly couple sitting in booth six, ask Adam to make change for me, and then return it to them.

Now this isn’t just any elderly couple—it is an elderly couple who comes in often to eat and whom I’ve waited on many, many times before. And they are quite intriguing. They walk in together very carefully, the tall, thin, white-haired, practically blind man shuffling across the floor like the well-loved Tim Conway Carol Burnett Show character, his attractive, classy, black-haired, somewhat-younger wife walking behind him with her right hand clasped around his right arm, her left hand clasped around his left arm, peeping around him to guide the way. Earlier, when they arrived, they ventured up the two steps into the nonsmoking section (they usually sit in booth thirteen, the first booth in the smoking section, which is much easier to get to). “I’m…feeling…eager today!” Albert commented, his voice patterns reflecting the way he walks.

When they finally sat down, I handed a menu to Gretta only—Albert always already knows what he wants, the same thing every time. “I’ll have…a…burger, well-done…it…has…to be…well-done,” he emphasized to me in a gruff voice, with a pointed, crooked index finger shaking in the air. (I’ve heard this a hundred times before, but he always insists on re-enlightening me.) “Just the…burger, though. Roll lightly…toasted…and put on…a separate…plate… And don’t forget the pickle!” he added, which reverberated like a cymbal in my ears.

He never has any trouble with that pickle part. He loves those juicy, flavorful, dill pickles. And thanks to him, I’ve learned quite a bit about them, because he just had to know who made them so he could get some for himself.

“They’re the Boar’s Head brand,” I told him, after having searched, shivering, all over the walk-in freezer in the basement one afternoon, looking and looking for a container of them so that I could read the label. (I had never thought to notice before. Anytime I need them, they are already sliced and placed within the multi-dish plastic container in the kitchen, along with the sliced onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, olives, and scallions.) “But, you know what?” I continued, regretfully. “The general public isn’t able to buy them in the grocery stores.” (Mary Ellen told me this.) “They usually only sell in bulk, you know, to restaurants and businesses.”

A cloud covered his face but, just as quickly, a smile reappeared. “Well!” he began. “That just…means…the wife and I will have…to…come…here more often!”

And Gretta just sat there gazing at him, the fingers of her right hand gently grasping the classy, silver cat frames, with the shiny silver chain, that always adorn her beautiful, contoured face.

Albert particularly enjoys asking me about my dancing, and is especially curious about all of the clubs I frequent on the weekends (and sometimes during the week!). He sits there relaxing as I talk about the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met, the dances I dance, looking not at me, but straight ahead, his hands folded and resting on the table. Still, there is no doubt he is giving me his complete attention. Try as it might, the glaucoma invader hasn’t completely won, has failed to hide the clear blue sparkle of wonder and happiness—of younger, easier, freer dancing days. Glenn Miller, blaring trumpets, fancy suits and bow ties, sophisticated ladies, flirting, unbearable attraction: It is all there…on fire…magnetic. As I talk, he feels…and dances. Waltzes across the floor. Holds in his arms a beautiful young thing who smells of lilacs. Jitterbugs and sweats. Moves his hips and spins around.

When I finish talking, he says in response, almost completely to himself, a melancholy smile approaching his face, a longing not entirely hidden in his voice, “Yeah…I am…I mean I was…quite the…rug cutter…in my…day…as well.” And then he sits there quietly for a few seconds, the look on his face saying that he is not yet ready to leave that place again, that wonderful, fabulous, carefree place.

But when he returns, he says (obviously making an effort to lighten things up a bit), “Yeah, maybe…after you get…off of work tonight, we can meet up…and…tear…up…the floor together!”

And I laugh in response, saying that I just can’t w—

“WAITRESS!”

I’m not even able to finish my sentence.

“There are other people waiting to be served, you know!”

Who else could it be but the TV reporter, glaring at me, completely turned around in her seat, shooting me all kinds of nastiness. Reality has not only hit my elderly friend, but me as well.

How dare you be so rude! I can’t help thinking, as my head jerks in her direction. But I manage to say, and as evenly as possible, “I’ll be right there.”

Part of me does understand, after all, where she is coming from. I have been talking to my friends for quite a few minutes now, and I had noticed her glancing restlessly at me. But the other part of me is furious, furious at her for not recognizing the importance of allowing me to complete the ritual, the reminiscing, the comforting.

“I think I better go now,” I mouth to my friends, who don’t say anything but just look down and nod.

Before going to the reporter’s table, however, I place my hand on my friend’s shoulder, bend down a bit, and whisper in his ear, “Don’t you worry yourself a bit, okay? Things were cut a little short today, but we’ll definitely dance again together next time…”

And we do—countless times—again and again and again.

******

(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, an idealistic, ambitious waitress who is at the center of it all.)

The Power of Rhinestones

Personal Yummy #22

Rhinestones

Rhinestones.

They shimmer. They shine. They beckon.

Radiating allure and glamour, you don’t know quite what to expect when you wear them. Except you do know that when you wear them you will experience some kind of transformation—and not just outwardly, but particularly within your soul.

Combine them with dance—and with a favorite dance partner—and you become the body electric, a body on fire, a body connected. And even more than that—an essential being.

An essential being in the vortex.

A Shade of White

Personal Yummy #21

IMG_White_resize

Wedding dresses
Snow
Loneliness
and
Linguini

 

Baileys
Bonbons
Coconut
and
Powder

 

Sneakers
Linens
Socks
and
Simplicity

 

Milk and Mediocrity

 

If white is your favorite color, you are sensible, optimistic, and wise. White is the color of pristineness, purity, and possibility.

Meditate today on the virtue of white, and on the courage and self-reliance that it inspires.

******

I hope you enjoyed the above musing on the color white. It is an excerpt from A Shade of Color: A Tribute to Color in Its Many Forms.