"Cold enough for ya, Tina?"
The blonde waitress in her forties, not new at her vocation, has heard this a million and three times yet she cheerily replies, "I know! That wind is just bitter! You having coffee tonight, hon?"
She is speaking to the man of the couple who have just shuffled in, the woman larger and bulkier using a cane as she navigates the tight space in the tiny restaurant, her leg bandaged and swollen from diabetic complications she tells the waitress.
Julie points out that the man is wearing wool pants that look to be about a 1940s vintage and I surmise that with long johns underneath they are likely to give as much warmth as some of our modern outdoors fabrics. He removes his cap and the two of them don't even glance at the menu. They know it by heart. It's Saturday night and the special is -- you guessed it -- baked beans, brown bread and fishcakes. She wants that; he wants clams and chips.
We are probably the youngest people in the little place when we arrive, and it was no doubt packed by five o'clock when the seniors seem to prefer dinner. There is a sea of silver hair, mostly couples, enjoying the delicious fare that Vicki's is known for -- deep golden fried fish and hand-cut Yukon Gold french fries. Each little booth and table, well-worn from being scrubbed clean between customers, holds a squirt bottle of Heinz ketchup, salt and pepper, sugar packets, and napkin dispenser and two types of vinegar, white and malt, the latter much favoured by fish 'n chips afficionados.
I catch the cook's eye in the little pass-through window between the kitchen and the eating areas. He's a sandy-haired man in his thirties who with a nod and a grin shows no sign of the weariness and boredom of many short-order cooks. The other waitress, Sally, shouts "Order up!" so that her voice can be heard above the bubbling oil and sizzling burgers on the grill. I muse, who'd eat a burger in a seafood restaurant? Give me the ocean harvest any day.
We know what we want as well. It's been almost a year since we've been to Vicki's and our mouths are watering for it. We will split the enormous seafood platter and have some onion rings. We order tea and water and watch and listen to the hum of the Saturday night clientele's voices, catching tidbits of their lives.
"Insurance fella told me, he says, not to set foot on your own roof to shovel snow and ice off. No, sir. You do that and you're as good as throwin' your policy away. If you damage your shingles or hurt yourself, they won't pay! You hire yourself one of them fellas who does it for a livin', he messes up, and you're good to go."
" . . . no, dear, you had pie for lunch. You don't need pie on top of a three piece fish and chips . . ."
"ORDER UP!"
Our food arrives and she brings the extra plate so we can divvy up the delectable platter of haddock, scallops, shrimp, clams, french fries, every morsel hot, crisp and golden. There's tartar sauce and cole slaw made on site and a tangy horseradish cocktail sauce for the shrimp. The onion rings are perfect circles of savoury crunch -- aah! We begin in earnest, but soon find that, even divided, this is a lot of food, and we slow to a halt with bits left. Just room for tea, although we see the servers passing by with coconut cream and banana chocolate pie. Who honestly eats an entire seafood platter all on their own?
"Yours is on the house," Sally says to a white-haired gent sitting in the booth near us with his wife. He's pleased as punch as she and Tina begin . . . Happy Birthday to youu . . . . then, it happens. Voices from every table in the place chime in and we are all singing to . . . Happy Birthday, dear Bu-ud . . . and a rousing final line from everyone in the whole restaurant.
I just don't think that happens in big cities.
No comments:
Post a Comment