| Steak? Why not. Joe looked at the menu and decided he’d have it all. Driving made him hungry; driving made him think of all the things he’d do when he stopped. A hot cup of coffee. A good long leak. Crack the back, stretch the legs. Chow down. Usually he stopped at a roadside joint, because a burger was usually all he ever wanted, and who didn’t want a burger? What did the world do before Americans invented the burger? It was the only thing you eat day after day and never grow tired of seeing again on your plate. Flat ones, square ones, round thick ones oozing with juice, ordinary drugstore burgers topped with tired lettuce and a ruined slice of tomato, nickel burgers from the buy-‘em-by-the-sack franchises with their regulation pickle circles and emphatic jot of mustard. Burgers. Pare the world down to burgers and women and most men would be content. As long as you promised variety. But. Sometimes a man wanted higher fare; sometimes you wanted to act the part of a civilized fellow, regardless of what dark thoughts had been stewing in your head as you headed down the rutted roads. A tablecloth instead of a formica pattern designed to hide stains. A table you could cross your legs beneath without worrying whether your knee would stick to someone’s gum. Plates that hadn’t be designed to resist abuse, water glasses not made of cloudy plastic. Heavy menus with a tassel. You wouldn’t want a steady diet of it, but now and again? Sure. So when he passed the Canary Cottage, Joe thought: that’s for me. He parked a few yards away, gathered his collar up against the wind, and slowed as he passed the window. Not many customers. Of course; it was 3 PM. Good. A chance to relax without the din of a dozen conversations, or twenty pairs of eyes wandering over to look at this guy who’s eating alone. At least you could say this about drugstore counters and luncheonettes; no one gave it a second thought if you were eating alone. It would be almost odd if you weren’t. Maybe eating was meant to be done alone, when you thought about it. A private thing. Well, maybe on Mars they eat in little rooms and crap in big public halls. It was warm in the Canary, cozy and dim. The fellow at the cash register looked like those nervy little guys in gangster movies, the ones with big suspicious eyes and pencil moustaches. He looked behind Joe, then asked “one?” “One.” “This way.” He seated Joe in the back, at the absolute farthest distance from the fireplace. “Can I sit over there?” Joe said. He pointed to the fireplace. “The heater in my car halfway shot and I’d like to make the acquaintance of my feet again.” The waiter nodded and took Joe over to another table, but everything about his posture and mood said you’ve torn it now, pal. “I’ll give you a minute,” he said. “Great. I’ll send up a flare when I’m ready.” He studied the menu. Expensive. The Boss would not be happy if it looked like he’d been living it up. He’d hit a cheap place for supper, balance it all out. The high-buck entrees were obviously no-go here, though. The waiter put a small plate on the table. Dinner rolls and butter. Foil-wrapped butter, the sign you were really going to take it in the pants when the check came. “Sir? Are you ready?” “I’ll have the canary!” Joe beamed. “Just kidding. I’ll have the hamburger steak.” “The hamburger steak,” said the waiter. “And how would you like that done?” “Immediately! I’m sorry. Too good a mood, friend.” “Of course.” “Medium well, and the baked potato, and the house dressing. With croutons? You have croutons?” “I’ll inform the chef of your request. Anything to drink?” “Coffee, and lots of it. Say, you got a paper? And some matches?” The waiter nodded and departed. A few minutes later he returned with the Inquirer and some matches; Joe studied the design, shrugged, and lit his Lucky. “How did you do that?” the waiter asked. “Do what?” “The way you lit the match. I’ve never seen that.” “What, this?” Joe lit another match one-hand style. “That’s a neat trick.” “It’s just – you’re kidding, you’ve never seen anyone do this?” “No.” “Maybe it’s a Cleveland thing. I doubt it, though.” “Mind if I bring out the chef, you could show him?” “Sure. No problem.” The chef was a long sallow man with big sad brown eyes; he gave the impression of someone who had just gotten bad news about his liver. But he brightened when Joe lit the match. “Hey, I knew a guy who did that,” he said. He had a voice like you’d expect to come out of a basset hound. We served together inna Pacific. He had to learn to light his smoke with one hand, because the other was operating something. He taught it to me but I don’t smoke so I lost the knack.” “Was he from Cleveland?” “Nope, a Southern boy. Damndest guy, hell of a guy. Lost him when we took a fish and almost sunk. What was his name? Sven? No! Soren. That was it. Soren the Swede from Alabama. Haven’t thought about him in years. I’d forgotten all about him.” He shook his head. He seemed lost and dark all of a sudden. Then he blinked. “Well, I gotta go cook your dinner. Thanks for the floor show.” Joe wondered if the cook would burn his hamburger steak for making him think about an old Navy buddy. Here the loses a friend in the war, buries the memory deep, and then some guy drives into his workplace and brings it all up with a carny trick. Ah well. He opened the paper and read a story about a fire and a dog. The steak arrived ten minutes later. New York Strip. |
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