FIORELLA’S – EAST SIDE 60s – 1981

“IRONCLAD“

Fiorella’s, an Italian Bistro on the East Side, is one of the first restaurants in Manhattan to sport a street-side glass enclosed patio. On the outside looking in, I spy a tall ginger snap, waiting on a table. He appears cool and professional. I could work here. I really could. He and I could be partners in service. I walk in, ask for a job, and get it. Next night I meet the ginger snap in person. He’s senior waiter, the person who is going to train me. I go to shake his hand, but miss and shake his fingers instead. They’re thick with knuckles; I imagine them wrapped around a baseball. He’s older-brother old, robust of build, and smells of Old Spice and clean underarms. “You sure you want to work here?” he says, “This is the hardest damn….I mean…okay. You’ve been warned. I’m Gaff. Walk with me.”

“I’m Ted,” I say, walking.

He goes on, “Yeah, don’t want to scare you. But, no one lasts more than three days. They either quit or disappear. I’ve been here three weeks, and I’m considered an old timer. I’ve lasted this long because for some reason…I don’t know what that is…the owners like me. You’ll wait on Nick and Tommy later. After you’ve trained. It’s their way of testing you. They met in prison, by the way. Never, ever allow yourself to be alone with either one of them. Also, keep nothing in coat check. Betty the coat check lady will go through your stuff. Oh, good luck getting a table. The hostess is an ironclad bitch. I know because I dated her. She got me this job then dumped me.”

Ironclad Bitch rounds the corner and stands in front of us, blocking our way. Pretty and brittle, she has soap opera hair and wears a deep red Adolfo knock-off, accented with an authentic imitation Hèrmes scarf. She looks me over, decides I don’t exist, and turns to Gaff. “Chef wants everyone in the kitchen. Now!” She holds Gaff’s eyes for a moment, smiles in disgust, and walks off.

“She’s cold,” I say to get on Gaff’s good-guy side.

“Cold? You could hang meat in her asshole.”

I don’t get the joke, but chuckle anyway, because Gaff’s a genuinely nice guy. Hard to come by.

“You’re funny,” I say.

“I’m a comedian.”

“I thought so.” I don’t, but I say I do, because I like him.

“Follow me,” he says, “and be ready to duck. The chef is certifiable. Last night he threatened to behead anyone who used the espresso machine without his permission.”

We walk into the kitchen and join the rest of the wait staff. They’re clumped in an awkward semi-circle facing Chef Bennie, a lit fire cracker holding a meat cleaver. On the table in front of him sits a small brown cardboard box coated with freezer frost. Bennie’s breath comes in spurts, every four of five seconds or so. He is, in a word, seething.

“Yesterday there were five Tartufos in this box.” He sucks in a pound of air. “Today there are two.” He exhales two pounds of air. “We sold one yesterday. One! That leaves two Tartufos unaccounted for. Two!” He pauses, then emits several frightening howls. “Some whore ate my Tartufos! When I find out who it is I will kill him dead. Like this.”

He raises the cleaver and slams the blade deep into the box of Tartufos.

“And this.”

He whacks the box from a different angle. Tartufo blood splatters his apron.

“And this and this and this–”

He whacks and whacks and whacks until nothing remains but an untidy heap of shredded cardboard and two dead Tartufos. Spent, he drops the cleaver and bends his head over the chocolate carnage. “Get the fuck out of my kitchen,” he pants with residual malice.

Gaff taps my elbow, and indicates with a tilt of his head for me to follow him. I do. In the wait station in the far dining room, he grabs my shoulders, and talks to me the same way, I’m sure, Billy Martin talks to Lou Gehrig.

“Stick around for staff dinner, slugger. It’s always pretty good…then, don’t bother putting on your uniform…just run. No need to say goodbye. Nick and Tommy probably forgot they hired you.”

After staff meal (Gaff was right, it was pretty good), I change into my uniform, stand next to Gaff, and eagerly await more instruction. How could I leave him when he is so nice to me?

“You’re fucking nuts,” he says.

“I know,” I say, “I know.”

“THE WINTER NOSE“

I’m looking out the window, watching the blizzard. It’s been snowing since morning. The street lies under a thick layer of meringue. No people, no life, only a deaf and dumb whiteness. A taxi cab, iced like a giant yellow cupcake, slides into view and skids to an almost stop. A tall, slender man emerges, nose first, and enters the restaurant. I hear him in the vestibule, pounding the snow off his shoes.

Then I hear Ironclad’s shrill voice ricochet off the walls of the empty dining room, “Table for…one?”

“Yes,” the man says pleasantly, “I’m so glad you’re open. May I sit in that booth over there, and spread out a bit?”

“No. We reserve that for parties of four or more.”

The man says, “Lady, I’m the only one here, and there’s three feet of snow outside. Unless you’re expecting a family of Yeti, I’d like the booth.”

Ironclad heaves a sigh like a javelin, “Okay, but if I need the table, I’ll have to ask you to move.”

The man heads to the booth, and Ironclad’s high-heels hammer the floor on their way over to me. “I sat you a table,” she declares like she’s doing me a favor.

I try humor, as nothing else so far has worked, “You want a medal?”

Her response is immediate, “I wish you’d quit. I don’t like you. Customers don’t like you. No one likes you.”

In the five nights I’ve been working here, I’ve endured her insults and sneers, put up with getting the worst tables, busted my butt to get her to like me, and made a total of $38.00. I’ve had enough. I look at her earlobes and say, “How lovely! Are those earrings or icicles?”

Her eyes glow with venom. “Take that table,” she says, “I guarantee it will be your last.”

I walk to the booth. The man is having difficulty removing his coat. I stand behind him, and gently lower it from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says, and I recognize the nose.

“Say, aren’t you David Brenner?”

“Guilty,” he says, and slides into the booth.

“I saw you on Carson the other night. You were funny.”

“It’s what they pay me for. Who was that iceberg who sat me?”

“Oh, her name is Ironclad Von Beech.” Maybe on way his out he’ll say, ‘Goodnight Miss Beech.’

Brenner says, “You should have a sign in the window that says, Beware of Hostess.”

“I’ll put one up after I get my rabies shot.”

He laughs, and orders a glass of white wine.

“You hungry?” I ask.

“Yes. And cold. I’d like to start with a soup. What’ya got?”

“Beef Barley.”

“Great. Bring me a bowl…with an extra fly.”

I fake laugh, and toddle off. On my way to the kitchen, Ironclad calls me over, “I spoke with Nick,” she says, “Guess what? You’re fired.”

“You may want to re-think that.”

“No, you’re fired. Get out.”

“Again, you may want to re-think that.”

Ironclad dials a number on the telephone, waits a moment, then speaks, “I told him. He refuses to leave.” She listens for a moment, then, with a smug smile, hands the phone to me.

I listen to Nick rant and rave. When he finishes, I say, “Okay, but I’m the only waiter who showed up today. Ironclad, I mean, the hostess just sat a table, and there are two four-tops on the book.” I listen to Nick’s silence for ten seconds. He speaks, finally. “Sure thing,” I say,” and hand the receiver to Ironclad. “He wants to talk to you.” She takes the phone. She listens for a while. Her lips disappear into her mouth. She hangs up, and speaks without looking at me, “Get to work.”

I go back to work. Brenner finishes his meal. He tells me he had a pleasant time and if he ever returns, which is doubtful, he’ll ask for me. I tell him not to bother, as I’ve just been fired. He leaves me a $20 tip and suggests that he and I wait outside and pelt Ironclad Von Beech with snowballs.

Years later I run into Gaff at an open-mike on the lower East Side. He tells me that Ironclad married Chef Bennie and was never heard from again.

In dire need of work…I wander…