Metropolitan Café

Thanksgiving Day

1996

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

I’m working Thanksgiving.

I’m assigned the Back Room, a nifty private dining room that comfortably holds about fifteen guests.

Only one party is scheduled: Former Governor Mario Cuomo, his wife, Matilda, and their immediate family.

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

The Cuomos arrive en masse. Matilda and Mario head the herd: a smattering of adult children, a sprinkling of spouses, several grandchildren, and the heir-apparent, Andrew. Matilda and Mario reside nearby and apparently had just had the gang over for an elegant cocktail hour before embarking my way. 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. Once seated, familial banter begins flying back-and-forth across the table…a ping-pong tournament of words, ideas, and rivalries. Matilda steers the conversation toward food.

“Shall we order?”

It’s an easy order. They all opt for the turkey dinner. It comes with an abundance of side dishes and several baskets of homemade rolls.

Wine is poured, dinner is served; wine is drunk, dinner is consumed. Then a slight pause. I’ve 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. All items not needed for dessert service are swiftly removed. Crumbing occurs. Cups & saucers, dessert forks & spoons, and sugar caddies are set.

I add an extra bit of pizzazz, stepping lively, making sure every piece of cutlery and crockery is perfectly placed. I step back to inspect my work. Matilda’s table gleams…

…except…except for that blot on the other side of perfection. The blot sits in front of Andrew. It’s a breadbasket with one delinquent, half-eaten roll. I turn to Rahim, my busboy.

“Grab that breadbasket, will you?”

“I can’t. The big one won’t let go of it.”

He points at Andrew, who sprawls like Moses at the first Passover. Andrew toys with the breadbasket, his index finger nonchalantly shuffling it back and forth.

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

I carefully saunter over to Andrew; he is indeed a big guy, all muscle and sinew, just this side of intimidating. I casually inch my hand towards the errant basket. Before I make contact, Andrew deftly pulls it away. He’s not looking at me; he’s 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 couple of seconds. Andrew 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 her way, his finger temporarily lifting off the basket. I snatch it and address the table.

“Dessert in, say, eight, nine minutes?” Then I get 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.