ROLL CALL

Metropolitan Café

(1^st Ave & 53^rd Street)

Sometime in the 1990s

Thanksgiving Day

Those with seniority get to choose which holidays they work. Those with no seniority do what they are told.

I’m working Thanksgiving.

It’s not my favorite holiday, so I’m not that aggrieved. I‘ll be working the Back Room. A private dining room. It’s a nifty little nook. Comfortably holds about fifteen guests.

Only one party scheduled in the back room: Matilda and Governor Cuomo, a couple of their adult children, a sprinkling of spouses, several grandchildren, and the heir-apparent, Andrew.

Bridgeen, my boss, will not be working this Thanksgiving; she was recently married and didn’t want to spend her first Thanksgiving as a married lady working in the restaurant. She cordially asked me to make sure all goes well with the Cuomos, as she and Matilda are quite chummy.

The Cuomos arrive en masse, Mario and Matilda heading the herd. Our Host and Hostess reside nearby and apparently had just had their gang over for an elegant cocktail hour before embarking my way…or so I fantasize. I greet Mrs. Cuomo first, as she booked the party. Then a nod to the Governor and a satisfying – that is to say crushing – handshake.

I escort the group to the Back Room and settle them in. Immediately, banter begins flying back-and-forth across the table…a ping-pong tournament of words, ideas, and rivalries.

It’s an easy order. On Matilda’s quiet insistence they all opt for the turkey dinner. It comes with an abundance of trimmings and sides. Included in with the trimmings are several baskets of homemade rolls.

Here’s how it’s supposed to work: Wine is poured, dinner is served, wine is drunk, dinner is consumed. Then a slight pause. We in the restaurant business have discovered that people like to look at their empty plates for a while – it’s a snapshot of their culinary voyage. Pause over, the table is cleared and set for dessert. All plates, glasses not being used, salt, peppers, and breadbaskets are swiftly removed. Crumbing occurs. Cups & saucers, dessert forks & spoons, sugar caddies are set.

I add an extra bit of pizazz for Mathilda, stepping lively, making sure every piece of cutlery and crockery is perfectly placed. I do this to make my boss proud and because Mrs. Cuomo is a very nice lady. I step back to inspect my work. Matilda’s table gleams…

…except…except for that blot on the other side of my otherwise perfect table. The blot sits in front of Andrew. It is a breadbasket with one delinquent roll. I turn to Rahim, my busboy.

“Grab that breadbasket, will you?”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“That big one won’t let go of it.”

He points at Andrew, who is sprawled out like Moses at the first Passover. He toys with the bread basket, his index finger nonchalantly shuffling it back and forth with ease.

I insist on a clean table. I think so does Matilda. That breadbasket must go.

I casually (read: carefully) saunter over to Andrew, for he is indeed a big guy. All muscle, sinew, and brains, just this side of intimidating. I smile and carefully reach for the basket. Before I make contact, Andrew deftly pulls it away. He’s not looking at me. He’s talking with Chris…well, arguing pleasantly with Chris. I lightly finger the breadbasket. Andrew pulls it away, again. I do not let go. I pull. He pulls. We do this tug-o-war for a few minutes. Andrew is not going to let go of the basket. He looks up at me and I’m sure is about to say, “Leave my basket alone,” but Matilda interjects with a question. Andrew, not one to ignore Matilda’s maternal power looks away, his finger temporarily lifting off the basket. I snatch it and address the table.

“Dessert in, say, eight, nine minutes?” Then I hie the heck out of there.

Dessert service goes off without a hitch. Once the bill’s paid, I make sure I’m at the front door for the grand exit. I want the entire restaurant to see me shake hands again with Governor and Mrs. Cuomo. I shake their hands, thank them for coming in, move on to Chris, shake his hand. I nod to the women, wave at the children. Andrew walks by, stops and stares at me. Just for a second. But it’s clear he didn’t appreciate losing the great breadbasket joust. His look says, “This isn’t over.”

Years later, as Governor, while giving his daily COVID briefing on television, Andrew pauses for a moment and looks directly at the camera. I know he’s looking at me. He senses me watching and gives me the same intimidating look he threw at me when he left the restaurant that Thanksgiving Day. He has never forgotten that damn breadbasket, and that I won.

Governor Andrew Cuomo, I challenge you to a rematch of the great bread-basket tug-o-war. Call me.