I've inherited my father's charm...
She's back, the Fox, the one who thinks I look like Lyle Lovett, only now she's back as a friend of a staff member, we're all eating dinner and she pulls up a chair beside the owner. There are introductions, the owner's son tells her what a hottie she is and that if it wasn't for the fact that he's a born again Christian and didn't believe in sex outside of marriage she'd be in trouble. There are a dozen people present.
"I've inherited my father's charm, you know" he says, by way of explanation. His father looks distinctly uncomfortable.
***
Walking through and setting up the dining room later I encounter him and a waitress, Fox's friend, in conversation.
"NAMEOFOWNERSSON, I don't want you to talk to me, touch me or come near me, is that understood?"
- "Yeah, but..."
"I mean it"
I feel for him, he's being told in as harsh a way as possible, yet he's not hearing it...he tells me a minute later, unfazed....
"I really like her in a strange sexy-mom kinda way....."
***
The conversations ramble. He wants to know if I think he can "take" his father in an arm wrestle. And he threatens his father with how things will change if and when he takes over the restaurant....his father leans close to me and repeats under his breath ..."I should-a drowned him when he was-a born....If I'd-a only known..."
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It's the joke that never grows old....
He's come out, the rush is past and he's visiting his customers.
He's quite charming, greeting and talking to the customers, inquiring about their dinners, their lives, it's a small family business. He knows everyone.
Sitting with a table he leans back in his chair and and shouts
"eh, Franco, how long-a you work-a here?"
"20 years" Frank answers.
"And how many-a children you have?"
"5" says Frank.
"And how many days off I give-a you in 20 years?" he shouts.
"5" says Frank.
Everyone laughs.
The waitress leans across the table we're setting and confides in me..."It's the joke that never grows old..."
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It's an old-school Italian restaurant
It's an old school Italian restaurant, this. You start at 10:00 AM in the morning, finish at close, anywhere between 10:00 and 12:00 PM. It's December, so it's usually 12:00 PM.
You set the restaurant up, turn the tables, stock the bar, cut the bruschetta, polish cutlery, fold napkins, get ice, check the candles, sugars, pepper-mills, put the bread in the bread warmer, one waiter vacuums, the other does stock, I fill in the gaps.
We stop between services for a half hour in the afternoon to eat. The owner's cooked us up some food, we sit, some days he leads the conversation with something that he's misread in the daily tabloid, the staff argue it for a bit before deciding that his opinions are undoubtedly the best ones to have on the topic, then it's back at it.
When the setup is done we wait for the customers, smoke cigarettes in the back, drink espresso, gallons of espresso, chat.
I'm not privy to their private jokes, the "newcomer", they're friendly enough but they want to see how I work out first, it's a clique. They talk about their affairs, their boyfriends or girlfriends, their families, all of them, not necessarily related to the owner but somehow or another almost all related to one another. I catch fragments only. They speak in Italian, thinking I don't understand it, talking about things over me when they want private conversations.
It doesn't matter. When it's busy you don't need Italian to understand "Take-a the fuckin-a food out" being screamed at you by an overstressed owner.
When it's not so busy everyone's cool.
They've all been here forever. The one waiter, 20 years, his sister, 10 years, another waiter 10 years.
None of them have ever worked in another restaurant. This is their first and only. Each of them took a break from the restaurant business for a few years to sell cars, but came back with the collapse in the economy.
They all work day and night. We all work day and night. No days off in December, except on Sunday when the restaurant's closed, and for a few days around Christmas. The rest of the year there's a floating day off, depending on business. No, none of them are too excited about it, but it's the wish of the owner and so they comply.
They're all Italian. They've given me an Italian name too, more out of a sense of humour than anything else."Antonio" they call me, after I unwisely told them of a previous restaurant where I'd been given a similar latin name.
It's a classic old-school Italian Restaurant.
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He's making notes
He means well. The staff never warned me, but watching them and him interact you figure it out.
He's apologized, it's not Alfred Hitchcock I remind him of, it's Alfred the butler to Batman, he was a bit confused but I seem like the guy who would organize and rule over the gadgets department. And he's sorry he misread me, he thought when I started that for some reason I, like him, was deeply spiritual, but if I'm not that's OK too, and I assure him that I'm not in the least and that it's OK with me.
Tonight he's taking notes.
He's grabbed a pad of paper from the waiter's station, glances at me every few minutes, then scribbles on a piece of paper and puts it in his pocket.
Secretive.
And I think to myself what a great idea this is and so I grab a pad of paper as well and begin my scribblings too....
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- Category: People
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