Early Bird Special
Along the wall they sit, in tiny half booths that tell the world no one cared to dine with me tonight. Eyes wide with hopeful desperation, they stare into you as you walk past, embarrassed by your own disgust. Parties of two or more get a real booth, a booth with room to lay your coat beside you, or your shopping bag under the table. But their coats are hung on a row of hooks on the wall. They speak loudly, to no one, and to everyone, repeating their comments again and again.
The woman's voice is grating, thick with an accent that betrays her metropolitan style. "Look at the flow-ah! Those people ate like animals! It's so doity under they-ah!" I turn around in my chair, looking for the 70 year-old Yenta in a babushka and housecoat who can't believe how doity the flow-ah is. The voice continues, now agitated by the receipt of a less than perfect dinner order. "I didn't want the cole slaw and this is NOT medium well!" The Yenta has gone missing and her babushka is in reality a Burberry scarf. But a Burberry scarf and a face full of Chanel moisturizer can only do so much. A lifetime in Brooklyn is harder to hide than crow's feet, it seems. "Look at the flow-ah! All that food! Ev-ry-way-hah!"
One seat away from Burberry is an Italian man with grey hair and a paunch who nibbles hungrily at the conversational bait she is dangling. He tells her he knows those "animals" and he'll have a word with them next time he sees them, ha ha ha ha, wink. He knows the owner too, he brags, as if knowing the owner of a tiny diner in a city of tiny diners is akin to summering in Martha's Vineyard with the Kennedys. Burberry, repeats they were animals, excuses herself and gets up. She goes to the steel counter in front of the kitchen, grabs her plate of food and returns to her half-booth. She decided she couldn't wait for her recooked burger any longer.
The Italian man's attention has turned to the surly Greek waiter who is writing down the details of the order being barked at him. "Half a broiled chicken, orzo soup, a baked potato, with margerine, not butter, MAR-GER-INE, spinach, no, scratch that, I eat too much spinach, mixed vegetables, and bring me applesauce but don't charge me. I know the owner and he doesn't charge me for applesauce." The waiter walks away. He returns with a cup of soup and two packets of saltines on a small plate. Scowling, he places it before the Italian man. "I should have told you, no crackers." Angrily the Italian man picks up the crackers and foists them back at the waiter for emphasis. "Melba toast! Melba toast with margerine, not butter, MAR-GER-INE." He emphasizes the words they way one does when speaking to a slow child or a person in the final stages of Alzheimer's.
The waiter, who was a fairly crappy waiter prior to being spoken to in this manner has now degenerated into a terrible waiter, after 20 minutes of dealing with Margerine and Burberry. He brings the melba toast and sets it on Margerine's table without comment. Perhaps 5 minutes later Margerine has devoured his soup and looks up expectantly at the waiter on his next trip past his table. "I've finished my soup!" He announces. The waiter ignores him, and turns to look at the orders that are up. He picks up a plate and carries it past Margerine. "I've finished my soup, Paisan!" Margerine repeats, louder this time. The waiter, unable to feign deafness any longer turns to him and spits out "So?!"
And then all hell breaks loose. Margerine is yelling at the waiter. The waiter is yelling at Margerine. The fat cook behind the counter is yelling at the waiter. Two-thirds of it is in Greek, so I can only understand Margerine's part of the conversation. "You've got a bad attitude! I work hard for my money! I'm 57 years old and I won't be disrespected! They know me here and your attitude stinks! I've been coming here for five years! I'm 57 years old and I won't be disrespected like that!"
After a few minutes, the waiter storms off and the melee dies down. The fat white-haired cook shakes his head and returns to the grill. In a tone of defeat, Margerine says, to himself more than anyone else, "I won't be disrespected like that." Burberry looks up from her burger and quits chewing to tell him, "Usually the service here is very good."