Tortallets Diner
Working in a diner as a waitress is sort of like a bartender working in a bar. There are times when people often return, become regular customers, and after a while, seek my advice on their problem of the day. As long as the coffee keeps flowing, so do their words.
There is one particular customer who comes in every night, well after the dinner crowd, and always sits at the same stool at the counter. When he arrives, there is never more than a customer or two in the diner. At first, I thought he was a homeless man, with his rumpled clothing and in need of a shave. He always smelled of Old Spice, which I thought, was somewhat strange because he hadn’t shaved. Oh well, the world would be dreary if we were alike.
He’d ask for a menu, look at the “today’s special” clipped to the front page, and then look through the remaining pages of the menu. I would return, place his coffee on the counter, and he would dress the hot beverage with three teaspoons of sugar.
While fixing his brew to his taste, he would ask, “Were you busy with the dinner rush?”
I would answer, “Yup. People from the sawmill stopped in for something to eat before returning home. There were also a few out-of-towners today. Have you decided what you would like?”
“No, I need a few more minutes. Everything looks tempting, and I can’t make up my mind today.”
I smiled my knowing smile, thinking of the piece of paper where I had already written the special of the day, and handed it to the chef. “No problem, Henry. Take your time. Closing isn’t for another few hours.
I leaned back to observe Henry. He started coming into the diner every night six months after his wife, Adelle, died. Henry took her death hard. He went from being a stocky, boisterous man to a skinny, quiet shell of his former self.
When Adelle was alive, she would bake pies for the diner. The apple pie with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce was a favorite of the customers. However, any kind of pie prepared by Adelle guaranteed to make your taste buds sing with pleasure.
When I applied for the waitress job many years ago, more than I care to tell, I let it slip I had a few years of culinary school training. I’m not sure why I thought this should be a key point in my interview, but when I opened my mouth, those words filled the room.
So when the pies from Adelle were no longer a part of the menu, The owner promoted me to pie baker/waitress. My pies were not a big seller, for I forgot to mention I dropped out from the culinary program because I was a terrible cook, especially in the dessert area.
“Henry, I’ll be right back, I need to check on my other table.”
Engrossed in the menu, Henry grunted his reply.
“How are you folks doing? Would you care for desert?”
“I believe so. I see you have blueberry pie available. Could we have two slices with whipped cream on top?”
“Sure can. Let me remove your dinner plates and I’ll be back with your pie.” I closed my eyes while walking away, hoping this would be one time where my pie was somewhat palatable. If I didn’t burn the crust, it was gummy. Maybe I should buy the crusts already made at the local supermarket.
When I returned behind the counter, I said to the cook, “Two slices of blueberry pie with whipped cream.”
The cook turned, smiled at me and raised an eyebrow. I stuck my tongue out at him.
Henry looked up from the menu and said, “Back’s been acting up again. What was that salve you mentioned the other day?”
“It is Gold Bond for sore muscles. I use it on the days where my feet are overworked. It helps quite a bit. In fact, when I use it, I could go dancing after work and not feel any pain. You can find it in the third aisle in the drug store. It’s a little expensive, but worth every penny.”
Henry would nod and say, “Well, too late to stop tonight. I’ll go tomorrow. I think I’m ready to order: how about a cheeseburger with fries?”
“How would you like that cooked?” I asked, pencil poised, pretending I was waiting to write.
Henry paused, returned to the daily special page and say, “So you have pot roast today? I think
I’ll have the special instead.”
I gave him a smile, told him no problem, and pretended to place the order. In the meantime, the two slices of pie were ready, and I delivered them. Well, at least they resembled pie.
When I returned behind the counter, Henry’s order was ready, and I retrieved it from the window that looked into the kitchen.
“Here you go, Henry, one daily special.”
“Thanks, Maddie. The pot roast looks delicious. Could I have a little more coffee?”
I refilled Henry’s coffee cup and asked if he had any special plans after he finished eating. He shook his head, as his mouth was full of food. I nodded, then poured myself a cup of coffee.
In the meantime, I glanced over at the couple eating the pie. When they took the first bite, they chewed for a moment, looked at each other, then pretended to wipe their mouths. I knew better. They were spitting the pie into their napkin.
After a few minutes of silent eating, Henry asked if I thought the drought would last much longer. “Couldn’t say,” I responded, “Weather man has been promising rain for days. There is a front moving in, but the rain is not falling. At least not yet.”
Henry swallowed the food in his mouth. “Guess I’ll be watering my garden myself to make sure my vegetables and flowers survive.”
I smiled at Henry and said, “Don’t forget, when you have ripe tomatoes, I am at the top of the list for a few. By the way, are you entering any of your home grown veggies into the county fair?”
Henry shrugged, and kept eating. We both knew he would have vegetables entered into the competition. He had been finishing second for years now. It would have been a nice change for him to win first prize.
The other customers stood up, and proceeded to the cash register. I rang up their order and asked, “How did you like your meal?”
“The dinner was very good, but your pie needs a little work.”
“I’m so sorry about that, I’ll remove the pie charge from the bill.”
I went to clear their table and looked at the pie they ordered. Each piece only had a few bites taken from it. At least they ate the whipped cream. Oh well, what can I say—some skills cannot be mastered.
Henry was the last remaining person in the diner. I walked behind the counter and noticed he had finished his pot roast. As much as I had hated this question, since pie was the only dessert on the menu, I nevertheless asked, “Would you like any pie today?”
Henry chuckled at some secrete joke and responded, “Maddie, I know you are the one baking pies for this diner since Adelle died. Don’t take this the wrong way, but your pie baking skills need work. Adelle taught me everything she knew about pie baking, and if I say so myself, I’m quite the pie chef. Why don’t you let me bake a few, bring them in, and see how they sell?”
My eyes widened in surprise at this new side of Henry, and I exclaimed, “So, all this time you have been letting me struggle with those blasted pies knowing they are tasteless and a waste of good fruit!”
Henry grasped my hand with his and said softly, “Maddie, when Adelle died, you were the backbone keeping me from falling apart and becoming a recluse. Don’t you realize the reason I eat in this diner every night is to see you?”
It took a few moments for his words to
sink in. I shook my head. Tears welled in my
eyes. “Henry, you are the kindest man I ever
met, and it broke my heart to see you suffer
at your loss. I am glad I was here to be your
strength.”
Henry smiled and held my hand tighter.
“By the way,” I said, “You never did
answer me about dessert. Would you like a
piece of pie?
