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John was a bit skeptical at first, but Robbie’s wasn’t such a bad place. It had the makings of the typical diner: the old plastic and chrome booths with the plush red padding, black and white tile floor like a chess board, blue neon lights racing around the counter, and the mountains of 1960’s nostalgia crap covering every wall. It was probably no Rose’s Diner, but it looked like he had a winner.
It was about six o’clock and John had just clocked out. Janitorial work had to be the most demeaning in the world, cleaning up after the mess of others more successful than you were was unbearable. The wound was having to lay down sawdust on the giant pile of puke; the salt was the looks he got as he did so, wrinkled noses and grimaces. John only wished he could be compared with dirt but he was lower than that, he was a rock, a rock cleaning up the dirt people walked on and spread. Worse still was being a janitor at Apple Creek high school. Whatever respect might have been given at a government building was loss upon miss cheerleader.
He hated his life. Everyday he worked his hands to the bone and for what? He had no wife or kids to go home to, his last girlfriend dumped him a year ago, said she couldn’t spend the rest of her life with a “mop jockey.” All he had waiting at home for him was a ratty old cat named Chester that smelled constantly of piss. John was a 32 year old janitor who swung by the Check-into-Cash place on the corner more than he did his house. He was nearing the end of his rope. John wasn’t a stupid guy, in fact he had scored a 1500 on his SAT, but he always lacked the drive to do much of anything. Just thinking about that lead to fits of muttering, “stupid! Stupid! Freaking ‘tard!” under his breath.
John didn’t exactly live in the best part of town, but there was one place that had brought a little light to the neighborhood, and that was Rose’s Diner. There everyone had known him by name, instead of looking at the menu all he had to say was “the usual” to Barbie the waitress and he would get his customary bowl of barley stew with cubes of pan-seared New York Strip steak thrown in, just like mom used to make. He came every Friday (after he visited the Check-into-Cash place of course) and had a big bowl with a warm heel of French bread and a glass of Coors . . . until the place closed down like every other shop in the neighborhood. Whistling after a hard day’s work, the “out of business” sign hit him like a punch in the face. John thought his heart would explode with grief, the one place where he was actually respected, the only good thing is his life.
That was two months ago and since then John had been moving from place to place to fill the hole in his heart where Rose’s was. None could compare to that diner, and none had the barley stew with steak cubes. When John found Robbie’s his head was throbbing, his back was tight, and his stomach was empty. John was dreaming of stew when he saw a ghost from two months ago. It was Rose’s! At least the place looked so similar that they may have been twins except where Rose’s name belonged over the door Robbie’s had taken residence. In his excitement he had cut across two lanes and jumped a curb to get to the parking lot. John ignored the screech of tires and the angry blaring of horns. He was home . . .
He strolled through the aluminum and glass doors, a goofy grin on his face, and was immediately greeted by the hostess, an 18 year old blonde wearing too much makeup and an impressive amount of flair covering her apron like snake scales. She was chewing a wad of cotton candy Bubbleyum. Must be the most hated girl here, John thought.
“Just one?” She asked, cheerily.
“Uh-huh,” John said, distracted, drinking in the place that looked so much like Rose’s. His hand dipped down to his left jean pocket and grabbed a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He placed one in his mouth and lit it with his Bic lighter. John took a long cool drag and blew it to the side.
“Smoking or non-smoking?” The hostess inquired.
Instinctively, John let out a chuckle at the attempt at humor. No matter how weak the joke, he always let out even the smallest of laughs as to not let the person feel embarrassed. He found it to be a courtesy. Yet he grew concerned when the hostess did not laugh back. Surely it was a joke? John was smoking a cigarette, how could he be any clearer? But the hostess made no move, she just stood there, smiling—stupidly—and cracking her gum. He stared at her for a few seconds and was amazed at how quickly things had gotten awkward.
“That’s smoking, hon,” John finally said, eyebrows raised.
“Mkay,” The hostess replied, oblivious of his incredulity, “Follow me sir.”
John sighed, took another drag, and followed her. She sat him down at a booth beneath Elvis’s gaze and handed him the restaurant’s laminated menu. “Your waitress will be right with you.” She walked away, her flair clicking and jingling like a walking tambourine.
He watched her leave and sighed. Hopefully not everyone at Robbie’s was this dim. Yet he soon forgot about her and resumed with beholding what was possibly his new haunt. So far Robbie’s had been everything he had hoped it would be. All that was left was the menu. John perused it carefully and found the place obviously prided itself on its steaks. It was placed before even the burgers and they had steaks of all cuts and quantities: rib eye, t-bone, filet mignon, porterhouse, sirloin, but his interested was piqued by the New York strip steak. He licked his lips and his stomach rumbled. So far so good.
Robbie’s variety of dishes was wide, ranging from burgers to seafood but John paid them little attention. It was soups and stews that caught his interest. Like the steaks there were many kinds of soups and stews but there was a problem, a monstrous problem: there was no barley stew! Let alone a barley stew with steak cubes. John blew out a lungful of smoke and flung the still glimmering cigarette butt into the ash tray. He hung his head in resignation. Will I ever find the right restaurant? John considered leaving but he figured as long as he was here he may as well order something. It was a shame; he was really starting to like this place despite the ditsy hostess and it wasn’t packed with families with noisy kids as diners like this were prone to.
It was not long until the waitress came, blonde as well but much older and dumpy. She had the face of a toad and like the hostess wore too much makeup. She could have been the hostess’s mother. “Good evening sir, my name is Mary and I will be your waitress.”
“Hello Mary,” John said, somewhat sadly.
Mary didn’t take notice of his grief. “I haven’t seen you here before but we’re always happy to have new customers. Would you like to hear about our soup of the day?”
And suddenly he was interested. “Yes, Mary, yes I would.”
“Okay, well it’s Friday so our soup of the day is barley stew with a heel of French bread on the side—”
“Wait!” John interrupted, heart pace quickening “Did you just say barley stew?” He was looking at her intently, almost buzzing with excitement.
Mary looked somewhat affronted by the interruption but answered all the same. “Yes sir—”
“Call me John,” He interjected—again. This was the place of his dreams and he wanted to establish a relationship with the workers as soon as he could.
Her mouth twisted with slight irritation but maintained her cheery voice. “Okay, John, yes, we serve barley stew here on Fridays. Are you interested?”
“Oh, very!” John rubbed the stubble on his chin chuckling with wonder. “You will not believe how long I have been looking for a place that serves barley stew. I used to go to a place called Rose’s Diner that used to serve this excellent barley stew with cuts of pan-seared New York strip steak thrown in. I tell you it is the best. I used to have it every Friday night since I was eighteen when I moved out of my folk’s house. You see my mom used to make it all the time and Rose’s made it just like her. But recently Rose’s shut down and so I’ve been looking for months for a new place to go to, and it looks like I found it.”
He smiled up at her but was dismayed by how indifferent she appeared after being told the story. Oh well, just as long as I can get my stew, I can work on our relationship next week.
“Mhmm, so you want the barley stew?”
“Yes I do Mary, very much so. But I gotta have the New York steak cuts thrown in, it’s what makes the stew.”
But she was shaking her head. “Oh, I’m sorry sir, our barley stew doesn’t come with steak cuts or any sort of meat. It’s just barley, celery, carrots, and onions.”
“If I have to buy to buy the steak separately that is absolutely fine by me, Mary. It’s been so long since I’ve had this stew that I will pay whatever price to have it again. A pound of flesh if necessary.”
They both laughed and John thought it was the end of it. Unfortunately, he was wrong. Mary let the laughter wind down before she responded, “That may very well be so sir, and I understand how badly you want this stew but that just isn’t possible.”
John’s smile faded, “What do you mean?”
“I mean sir—”
“John,” he corrected.
“John,” she said, voice edged with impatience, “Is that we have a barley stew and a New York strip steak, one is not the other and one does not go with the other. This steak barley stew you described is not on the menu. We can’t do it.”
John was incredulous. “Why?”
“Sir—”
“It’s John,” he corrected, again. “and I know why, you just explained it to me, but it doesn’t make any sense. I would be ordering both and it wouldn’t be difficult to combine them.”
“Well, John, I’m sorry but like I said, it isn’t on the menu. I can only give orders to the chef for items that are on the menu. I wish I could help but there’s only so much that I can do! I’m really sorry sweetie, but the menu is the menu.”
His mouth was agape, but he was trying to keep his calm. “But it is on the menu, Mary,” he showed her the menu and pointed to the New York strip steak. “There, New York strip steak, typed for all to see, on your menu. And just a moment ago you told me the soup d’jour—”
“The what?”
John paused to bite his tongue before he said something rude. “The soup of the day. You said it was barley stew, so this diner makes the two items that I want made. All that’s left is the simple act of putting the steak into the stew.”
There was silence and John was relieved for he must have gotten through to her. But, he didn’t.
“John, the two dishes you listed may be on the menu, you didn’t have to show me. But nowhere do I see a barley stew with steak in it. If there was, there would not have been a problem and I would have taken your order. But there is a problem, it isn’t on the menu so I cannot get it for you. If you want you can order both and cut the steak and put it into the stew.”
“I guess I could do that,” John replied, patience wearing thin, “but it wouldn’t be the same. The steak needs to cook a little bit in the stew to really make it whole. That is all I want, nothing more and I don’t think that is too much to ask.”
“I’ve already told you we can’t do that, sir. Please understand that.” Her lips were pursed, making her look twice as ugly.
Lordy, back to sir, I haven’t made any progress. John didn’t bother correcting her that time, he was too annoyed. This stupid bitch is going to give me an ulcer. “No, I don’t understand that. This is ludicrous! What I’m asking to have done isn’t brain surgery.” John picked up his butter knife, “All I want is for you to take the steak that I’m ordering, slice it,” he began cutting the imaginary steak before him, “You see? Like this, observe the motions I am making with my knife. Then, when the steak has been cut into cubes—keep in mind that they don’t have to be perfectly shaped—you take it and place it into the stew and let it simmer,” he scooped the imaginary steak bits with his hands and dumped them into the nonexistent bowl. “It isn’t difficult!”
“Maybe!” Mary said, raising her voice, all cheer gone. “But as I have said, sir, we can’t do it because it is not in the menu! I can only deliver orders that are on the menu!”
John’s hands were shaking. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so furious. All he wanted or expected from this crappy life was a bowl of barley stew with steak in it once a week and some toad of a woman was denying him of it. His rage, his frustration, his sense of inadequacy were all threatening to bubble—explode out of him via his fist, his foot, his elbow. In his mind’s eye he could see himself eating a bowl of stew with her teeth floating in it. It was only with the utmost determination that he kept his anger in check. “Okay,” he said, trying to be calm, “albeit the sort of stew I am ordering is not, in its whole form, on the menu, it is not hard to modify the stew and make it the way I want. Like I said, all you need to do is slice the steak and put it in the stew. Two extra actions are all I’m requesting. To cut a steak and to put it into a bowl. I know it sounds complex, but trust me, it’s easier than it sounds. It isn’t like I’m ordering a whole leg of lamb to be made for me. If need be, I will go to the back, into the kitchen, and do it myself.”
“You’re not allowed to go into the kitchen.”
“Fine! I didn’t want to, but if it will get me my stew, then I will.”
“You can’t go back there and your stew is not on the menu!” she retorted, defiantly.
And they stared at each other, eyes filled with loathing. John was gripping the table hard enough to leave marks. “Get-me-the-manager . . .” he whispered, red faced and shaking like a volcano preparing to erupt.
“Gladly . . .” Mary replied, words dripping with malice.
She left, quickly, leaving John alone with the sound of pounding blood between his ears and the drumming of his fingers. Soon after, the manager came, a short, bald guy with thick-rimmed glasses. His white button down shirt was pressed and immaculate. He listened carefully to Mary as she whispered angrily about John’s rudeness. “What seems to be the problem sir?” the manager asked.
John paused to compose himself. “All I want is a bowl of your barley stew with cubes of a pan-seared New York strip steak in it. I will pay for the stew and the steak, all I want for you to do is put the steak, sliced, into the stew. Could I have that please?”
The manager was silent for a moment, stroking his chin, considering John and Mary’s words. Then: “I see no problem with that. Mary, take the man’s order.” He gave John a nod and walked off. The look on Mary’s face was priceless. She looked fit to spit, teeth pressed together and bared like a rabid dog and her eyes wide and staring. Mary raised her notebook. “So one New York strip steak—”
“Medium,” John said triumphantly.
Her knuckles were bone white. “Medium, and a barley stew with the steak chopped up,” she said it like she was imagining John was the steak, “and thrown in. I’ll have it for you shortly,” she choked. Mary wrote it all down with harsh cutting and stabbing motions, ripping the lower half of the check.
She stormed off but John wasn’t through. “Oh, and a beer, Coors, to savor this,” and shot her a grin.
Mary wrote the last order with so much hatred in her eyes that they looked like twin suns in her sockets. “I’ll have them in a moment—asshole,” whispering the last word.
John scratched his chin with his middle finger. “Likewise, Mary.”
As he waited for his order John pondered whether or not if he was crazy for staying. The stew wasn’t the only reason why he sought a new diner to eat on Fridays. Rose’s had provided a place where he felt like he belonged. John wasn’t just some lowly peon there, he was somebody, and it was a place he could feel at home while eating his favorite dish. But it looked like one stubborn waitress had cost him a new Rose’s Diner to spend Fridays at and relax. It looked like he would have to keep looking next week. So much for a relationship with the workers.
Half an hour later Mary returned, not the least bit mollified, and slapped the food down on the table. “Here’s your food. Enjoy.”
He may not have a future at Robbie’s, but at least he could enjoy his stew again, even if it was for just one night. John laid his napkin across his knees and snatched up his spoon. “Oh, I will,” and was prepared to take a scoop when he suddenly felt a pang of apprehension. It was his stew alright, looked just the same and its wonderful aroma was making him salivate. He could see the lumps of juicy brown cubes of strip steak and the steam rising from it was positively inviting. But something was wrong.
He looked up and saw her still standing there, the smallest of curves on the corners of her mouth. The spoon fell from limp fingers, clattering noisily on his plate, almost deafening. He remembered the old phrase “don’t fuck with the people that work with your food,” and ground his teeth together. What did that bitch do to my food? John leaned in close and eyed the stew carefully, wafting the steam towards his face. Suddenly it didn’t smell so savory; was that a turd he was sniffing? A little urine maybe? John studied the stew’s brown surface; was that a pubic hair floating next to the carrot? Did a loogie marinate this steak? John wanted to scream, scream and drown Mary in the bowl of befouled stew she had served him. His favorite dish, ruined! What a fool he had been, he should have seen this coming. Her smile was scarcely hidden. What did she do? Maybe nothing. Probably everything.
John wasn’t going to risk it.
He pushed the bowl away from him with disgust and stood abruptly, slapping a twenty on the table. “Damn you,” John half shouted and stormed out of Robbie’s, Mary’s laughter snapping at his heels like a mongrel dog.
“Have a good night sir! Hope to see you again soon,” the hostess said as he left.
“Shut up.” John spat the word and she smiled absently back. He looked up at the diner that had once looked so much like Rose’s and now saw Apple Creek high school, the home of mockery and scorn. “You haven’t beaten me!” he cried, “I’ll find another place to go one day!” And so his search continued.
That night John had a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and hated it.
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One day me and my granpappy were goin' fishin' down by the crik. I slipped and fell on a rock, skinning my knee and my granpappy leaned in real close and asked: "Is the rock okay?"
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