Yes, I know it’s only Wednesday. Allow me to go off track for a bit. A new story will appear this Friday, I promise. In the meantime…

REQUIEM for a WAITER

Dawn Kavulich is dead. She was 67, bright, sophisticated, and funny. She was the mother of four accomplished children, wife of Paul. She was a friend. She was also a waiter. For 30 years she slung hash, that is, flung meatballs at Russell’s, an upscale Italian restaurant in Scranton, Pennsylvania, owned and operated by the mother/son team of Debbie and Russell Preno.

Dawn knew all of Russell’s client’s by their first names. She knew where they lived, what they did for a living. She knew their birthdays, their anniversaries, where they had their hair done. She worked their christenings, their graduations, their weddings, their baby showers, their funerals. She was well aware of their ticks, their whims, their bug-a-boos. And she knew what they wanted to eat and drink, and when and how they wanted it. She was cool under pressure and infinitely gregarious. In her heyday Dawn was the most requested waiter at Russell’s, because she didn’t wait on people; she took care of them.

She also took care of her bosses. She considered Debbie and Russell family, and because they were family, she could read them like they were thermometers. She’d known Debbie since childhood; knew her moods, knew that Debbie wanted things done a certain way, and she made sure it happened “that way.” Dawn once said, “Debbie’s generous to a fault. She’ll bend over backwards for you. But she isn’t a push-over. She’s tough, and she gets annoyed when things aren’t done her way. But she’s fair. Do things her way, and you’ll have a job for life.” She’d watched Russell grow from a goofy, ungainly kid running wild between tables, into a renowned and respected chef, and considered him her “other son.”

I had moved to Scranton from Manhattan in 2013, and needed a job. Russell and Debbie hired me as a waiter. I ended my restaurant career in Manhattan as a manager; I hadn’t waited on tables in a decade. So until I got up to speed, I asked Dawn to ‘Keep an eye on me.’”

She kept an eye on me.

The following story is my interpretation of what it was like to be trained by Dawn in one of the wackiest restaurants on the planet. And yes, I’ve taken some liberties…

“DAWN”

Dawn says: “We don’t do table numbers here.”

And I say: “Um – er – what?”

“We don’t do table numbers here,” she says again.

And again I say: “Um – er – what?”

“Tell me your name again?”

“Ted,” I say.

“I need you to pay attention, Teddy.”

“It’s Ted,” I say.

“So, Teddy, when you’re ready for your main course, don’t run in the kitchen and tell Russell you need table 201, because, like I said, twice, we don’t do table numbers here…when you’re ready to pick up your table, just tell Russell that you need your three-top…unless it’s a two-top, then just tell him what that order is…you might say, Russell, may I have my two-top with the ravioli and linguini white clam…we have two clams sauces, by the way, red and white, don’t mix them up or Debbie’ll get mad…now before you call for your food you should have already warned Russell if you’re dealing with meat…that is, anything with a temperature…here’s what you do…before serving the last item before the main course, be it salad or appetizer, you have to let Russell know that you will soon be ready for whatever it is you will soon be ready for…so you’ll say, Russell, I’m dropping my salad and/or appetizer on the table with the steak or the prime rib or the lamb chops…this way Russell knows to begin cooking your steak or prime rib or lamb chops…now if Russell’s at a concert…he’s a Dead Head…and Timmy’s behind the line…and you absolutely must speak with a chef…ask who he is first…besides being nuts and pre-diabetic Timmy has multiple personality disorder…I’m not kidding…there’s four or five people banging around inside his skull…if he’s Peter the Pelvis, tell him you’d rather speak with Connie…she’s nicer and still has a part of her brain left….if he’s Doctor Death, leave the kitchen immediately and call 911…now the point is…whoever’s behind the line, be it Russell or Timmy and his friends, make sure you communicate what you need, otherwise you’ll screw up the kitchen’s timing…you’ll screw up your timing…you’ll screw up everybody’s timing…and Debbie’ll get mad.”

Dawn intuits that I need a drink, and walks me to the bar.

“As you can see, this is the bar. Never go behind the bar during service. Mike our bartender is the nicest guy in Scranton, but he’ll kick your ass if you get in his way. Maggie goes behind the bar all the time, because she knows Mike won’t kick an old woman. But you…don’t play with fire. Write your drink orders on a dupe, and put it here. Make sure Mike knows. Say, ‘ordering’ or something. Don’t scream it. Say it. He’s not deaf. Mike’ll make the drinks and put them there. Don’t let them sit there for long, though. No more than thirty-seconds. Otherwise Debbie’ll get mad.”

I mumble something about the intricacies of restaurant timing and what if I’m not physically able to pick up the drinks in thirty –

“Are you talking to yourself?”

“I think so.”

“Well, keep it down. You’ll disturb the customers. You should know that some of our customers think they’re movie stars, especially the ones who’ve been coming here for years. We have a ton of doctors and lawyers, politicians and judges, and one priest who packs a .38 caliber special. You have to know how to handle him, otherwise, you might get shot…and Debbie’ll get mad.”

Honey, I’m a pro, I can handle…wait. A priest with a pistol?

“You’re breathing funny. Are you okay?”

“I will be, in a couple of months.”

Dawn walks me to a stainless steel table with a large cutting board that looks like it’s been hacked to death by large predatory birds.

“This is our bread…area. We only have one busboy. We call him Dibs. Maggie calls him Francis. We don’t know why because his real name is John. He’s here on Saturday only. He’ll bread your tables, but you gotta keep reminding him. Now, the rest of the week, you get your own bread. Three slices per customer. And you have to heat it. You cut it like this. Slice. Slice. Slice. Then put it in that pizza oven over there. Don’t stick your bread in and walk away. You’ll forget about it, your bread will burn, and Debbie’ll get mad.”

I mutter something about being a four-star waiter heating my own bread.

“I understand you used to wait on tables in Manhattan. I’m sure you’ve seen some things. I wouldn’t talk too much about it, though. This is Scranton. You’ll sound all know-it-all, and Debbie’ll get mad.”

Dawn hands me a tattered menu.

“Take it home. Study it, then bring it back, we’re short. You’ll notice that most dishes get a side of pasta. If they don’t want the pasta, they get to pick two from the following three: veggie, potato, side salad. They can have two veggies, two potatoes, but they cannot have two salads. Except for Eileen Tinklepaugh. Don’t let the name fool you. If she doesn’t get a double salad, she’ll make you cry. I realize this is a lot to take in on your first day. Don’t worry. I have a plan for you. You won’t get a table for at least a week. So watch and learn and stay out of everybody’s way, otherwise, Debbie’ll get mad.”

“Where is Debbie?”

“She’ll be here soon. When she gets here, remember, it’s her name on the sign. Her name on your check. It’s her way or no way. Oh, here she is.”

A voluptuous dame appears

It’s Debbie

Beautiful open face

Wide eyes

Gigantic smile

Quite busty

Killer shoes

All woman

And Debbie says very cheerfully: “Hello, Teddy.”

“It’s Ted,” I say.

“So, Teddy. You’ve had the grand tour from Dawn. Any questions?”

“Yes,” I say, suddenly panic-stricken, “What do you mean you don’t do table numbers!!?!”

Dawn rolls her eyes, guides me away, and parks me in the front dining room.

“Stay here,” she says, “and don’t touch anything…or Debbie’ll get mad.”

~~~~~~

Dawn Kavulich retired from waiting on tables about a year before the pandemic struck. To my everlasting regret we hadn’t spoken in about a year due to those exigencies of life that keep one occupied and isolated. She died at home on April 11^th, 2023. I’d heard that her husband Paul had served her lunch shortly before she died. It’s fitting that at her last meal she herself was waited on, and by someone she loved.

Dawn and I shared a silly shibboleth about our customers: Touch their hearts. Touch their souls. But never touch their food.

Goodbye, Dawn. You touched the heart and soul of thousands and thousands of us. And we shall miss you…I shall miss you…dearly…