So, for the past 4 months, at least, I’ve been living a strange, double-life. That’s right. And its not sinister, or sickening, or even remotely crazy (well, I’ve got friends who disagree).
I used to frequent a bar here in town called “Big Ben’s”. It’s small, and dark, and smoky at the best of times. While its called a pub, it has no kitchen, but can bring food in for the truly desperate. Wings always taste good when you’re approaching “copious amounts of alcohol”. On Thursdays, they ran a karaoke night, totally for fun and kicks, none of this “Top winner of a year’s competition, as decided by crowd response and a dumb machine”… and you’d get all kinds, like country fanatics, and those who’s last lucid memory occurred in the 1970’s. Maybe its the same people, I don’t really know. I got to know the guy who ran the Karaoke on a first name basis (His name is Johnny. He’s the self-styled, self-proclaimed “king of karaoke”). I started to “steal” his songs, like “Mack the Knife” and later “you’ve got a friend”, which we’d sing in a duet. He was so excited the night he told me he’d finally come to terms with his drug and alcohol addictions. He’s been clean for like 2 years or more now, with a few nights where he’s fallen off the wagon. Got married on New year’s this past year, for the first time. He’s 45, at least. And it was in a bar across town.
Later, I moved (when Johnny did, actually) to another bar called Stanleys Sports Pub. It was once known as Stanley’s Steamer, and its regular patrons still call it that. On Wednesday and Friday nights, Johnny had convinced its owners to run Karoake with him at the helm. Further, they invested in a top of the line Karoake system which uses all the CD formats, etc. For once, this technological terror has impressed me. They even have monitors. The crowds are usually friendly, Johnny has a couple of nice guys who’s working there with him, and they have a much better selection of beer and food on the menu. But nothing good on tap. A pity. It was here I started to sing Frank Sinatra songs (like “Lady is a Tramp” and “Under My Skin”) as well as the Big Bad Voodoo Daddies. They have some good songs in their database.
But I came here to tell you about my double-life, see? These bars were precursors to the real thing, so to speak… cuz, starting in January past, I began to go to a local restaurant, regularly.
And I mean regularly… when the paycheck’s safely stowed into my low-yield chequing account, you can count on seeing me there at least once a day. The coffee is good, the menu’s got variety, and they are a 24 hour place… which means a good breakfast is always available. Its not greasy spoon, its even kinda upscale, but the prices are affordable.
Hey, in this age of political correctness for everyone except smokers, it even had a smoking section. I highlight had because this past week they finally phased in the “This restaurant is now Smoke Free” changes which the government is requiring in the next little while. But thats not why I’m writing; I’m still going to go there, regardless. Besides, us smokers are a dying breed anyhow, right? Just means I’ll have to go outside onto the nice deck which overlooks St John’s Harbour for my breath of “fresh air”, is all. And summer-time’s coming.
The restaurant staff is awesome. Its because of their friendliness one or two times I kept coming, and now I’m on a first name basis with them all. Heck, they come over on their breaks and sit and chat. I thought the bar-tender’s were supposed to deal with everyone’s problems… not so in a restaurant! I’ve got T. talking about raising a daughter and her troubles with hubbie in past, and the upcoming ultimatums;
I met E. on New Year’s Day, and eventually we started talking about some cool literature like Kerouac’s On the Road, she sat down the other night and asked me if her accent was “like, really valley girl, or something?” (I replied “Totally”);
there’s C. who’s without a doubt the world’s most talented bitter male waiter, who’s wasting a perfectly good standup routine working for peanuts; he’s also known as the “invisible waiter” because he’s often a redundant component. He cracks jokes and makes lewd hand gestures behind customer’s backs. He carries a lip balm stick in his pocket and puckers up to everyone.
There’s J. and E. who do the days, sweethearts both, dedicated smokers. There’s A. who’s leaving, who introduced me to Ani DiFranco, and who I showed how to play alternative “b” chordings on the guitar. She’s moving back to Ottawa. She gave me the name “Hardcore coffee drinker” and wonders every night how I manage to go to bed. She also gives me my coffee (hundreds of them by now) for free. She gets tipped real well.
There’s D. who is constantly told she looks like “joey” on Dawson’s Creek, and really does, a bit. She’s funny and charming, and reads a lot… she smokes old man cigarette brands and broke my heart (ever so gently) by tactfully introducing the nicknames her “boyfriend’s mother” called her. I thought, at the time, “She’s oblivious” but I’m not so sure anymore. Anyhow, she’s still a sweetheart.
There’s R. and M., the only two other male staff I know well… who both left for various reasons, but basically because the owner is really a big jerk. R. got fired for locking a vacuum cleaner into his car. M. left because he wanted out, but needed to find another job to fund his return to university. Both were awesome to talk to, gentlemen both, and damn talented on handling the floor and belligerant customers returning from a drunken evening’s revelry.
There’s G. the cook, who knows I’m in the joint from what’s just been ordered, and will cook anything for me. he also comes in on his days off, sits and shoots the breeze with the regulars. And R/ the cook, a newer one, who makes a kickass peppersteak.
I’ve sat and wrote for hours in this restaurant. I’ve read whole books in a couple sittings, interrupted only by a returning waitress kindly laughing about the coffee intake, or perhaps if I want something else to eat. I’ve not even put on much weight. They seat me where I can make faces right into the back area of the upstairs kitchen, where the wait staff and the cooks hang out and throw coffee-creamers for kicks. I’m gonna get a tour of the kitchen, one of these days.
So why all this? Because its grown on me. I’ve been thinking more about it as the weeks roll by, and for all the cash I’ve spent in countless coffee’s (or just the food) and knowing that who-ever’s on, what you want will be waiting for you, at a good table, 20 seconds after stepping through the door. I’ve learned more about people in the last four months. I’ve met countless other regulars and passers-thru. Some of the most interesting people, too… Like D. who’s a cook at another competing nearby restaurant, and who doesn’t know anything about anything (or so he tells you, glancing side to side and giggling).
So… do any of you all have a wonderful place where everyone knows your name? Wanna talk about it?
Incidentally, if anyone’s ever in St. john’s Newfoundland, for whatever reason, check out the Classic Cafe East, located nearby the Newfoundland Hotel on east Duckworth street, in the downtown area. Say where you’re from, and that James sent you. Their website is Classic Cafe, but its for the OLD cafe… the new one’s better.
Regards,
Jai Pey