I decided I wanted some authentic Mediterranean food, and
drove to my favorite restaurant on the lower West Side of town. I don’t know
the dynamic – if the husband and wife owners are respectively Italian and
Greek, or what – but it is labeled a pizza place.
It has a name suggestive of
ethnic Italian. I’ve eaten lasagna, pasta with Alfredo sauce and chicken,
spaghetti with meatballs, and pizza there. And the food is delicious. But at
least half the menu contains Greek foods. Decided to branch out into the Greek
dishes. I’d never been disappointed, and
this day was no exception.
The building is a former Hardee’s and still has the overhang
drive-through look on the parking lot side. My daughter hurried inside ahead of
me so she could use the restroom. By the time I got to the front door, two
young men between 18 and 20 strode to the front door and arrived before me.
Both
wore oversized baggy clothing – shapeless pants, crotches hung halfway to their
knees, wide legs concealing the body’s form, giant shirts hung like shawls from
their shoulders – and had multiple facial piercings. The lighter-skinned of the
two also had facial tattoos and beautiful black hair that fell in ringlets,
framing his angelic Mediterranean features. He reminded me of a Greek god.
What Other Customers See |
What I See |
Each guy manned one of the two doors, and held them open for
me. Both lowered their gaze in an age-old gesture of respect. It was gallant,
it was mannerly, it was chivalrous. The ritual was familiar, comfortable, welcome; men
respecting femininity. I thanked them and smiled, making sure to catch their
eyes and hold their gaze for just a spit second to acknowledge my appreciation.
It reminded me of a version of Romeo and Juliet I once saw where the actors were clad in West Side Story type costumes and the language was modern.
The disc jockey on the radio station played a perfect
selection of 1970s favorites. And the volume was cranked up loud enough that
the most hard of hearing customer would enjoy the music. It wasn’t painfully
loud – but it just barely missed earning that label. This is not a venue for
cozy conversation over a meal.
I ordered lamb kabobs over basmati rice (it wasn’t labeled
basmati, but that’s what it was). Instead of Greek salad, I had a regular
garden salad. I’m not a fan of olives and I’m not even sure I’ve ever had feta
cheese. But exposure to shish kabob during my marriage to a Middle Eastern chef
solidified my love for the simple but satisfying (if prepared properly) dish.
I
figured it was a crapshoot – I am dubious when it comes to trying anything out
of the ordinary in a public restaurant – but I was willing to give it a try. I
figured the worst they could do was to have tough untasty meat. How can you
mess up grilled onions, green peppers, and tomato chunks? And rice, rice is
fairly foolproof.
Across the street is a former gas station now blocked off
with portable barriers. If we were out West, you’d expect to see tumbleweeds
blowing around in the parking lot, it is so forlorn. Long ago at that same
location, I pounded out a dent in my father’s maroon Chrysler Newport with a
rubber mallet.
The men there showed me how to tap the trim strip back into
line. I had cut too close to a parked car while parking, and caught not only
the decorative trim on the side, pushing it out of place along the track, but
buckled in the fender panel a little bit. The damage was hardly noticeable by
the time I finished.
Behind the former gas station are a row of cookie cutter
company houses, probably built to accommodate chemical plant workers when World
War I’s demand for chlorine and sodium hydroxide jump-started industry here.
The Valley boomed as chemical plants popped up like dandelions and the naturally
found local salt brine provided one last flurry of employment which lasted
until a few years past the nation’s withdrawal from Vietnam.
We went from being
the world’s largest producer of salt at one time to the nation’s largest
producer of chemicals to the dubious honor of the United States’ fastest
shrinking city.
Behind the houses looms a dark ridge covered in leafless
trees – it is winter – which accurately reflects the somber mood of this area. Trees
themselves remind us of once-thriving life. The bare branches and dark brown
coloration reminds us we are in a dormant phase.
The inhabitants are always
stood over or intimidated by some larger-than-life force, whether Nature or faceless
industry or outside-owned coal companies. The beauty of Appalachians is that we
endure regardless of outside influence.
The door to the back room was directly behind the booth we
sat at. Slot machines fill the room; money and hope are pumped in and mostly
disappointment returned. I told my girl how in the old days, before wagering
machines were legal, how there were “games for entertainment only.” Poker
machines that ate quarters but also took fifty-cent pieces.
If you were in the
know, you used only fifty-cent pieces. The owners got all the fifty-cent pieces
back from the guys who owned the machines. Not only that, but you got to keep
any winnings you earned as long as you played with fifty-cent pieces. You had
to know to do that, but I knew. You also had to let whoever was running the
place know you were using fifty-cent pieces.
I told her about parlay cards (a form of wagering done for entertainment purposes which paid off under the table), and she told me about the modern version – fantasy football
betting. I held a series of jobs in the 1970s where I was either the only woman
or one of few women in the business, and parlay cards were popular at the
places I worked. Since I had a knack for choosing winning teams, the guys asked
me to mark their cards.
The waitress brought our food – my kabobs, and a huge Caesar salad for my
daughter, complete with homemade croutons – and we dug in. The lamb almost melted in my
mouth, it was so tender and the marinade they used was delicious. I looked over
the menu to decide if we wanted anything else and noticed the beer cost less
than the soft drinks we ordered ($1.75 versus $1.79). I don’t drink beer but I
figure that’s a pretty good price.
We ate what we could without stuffing ourselves, and put the
leftovers into Styrofoam containers to take home. Daughter got a slice of
baklava ($1.25). I didn’t try it but she said it wasn’t the best baklava she’d
ever had. I laughed and wondered if there was such a thing as bad baklava.
Then
I told her how my mom used to make it. The Lebanese ladies in the neighborhood
liked her – she had a sort of generic ethnic look and could pass as Lebanese,
Syrian, Italian, Hungarian, Native American, Polish, Russian, Ukrainian,
practically any nationality – and they taught her how to make baklava.
I remember her layering sheet upon sheet of phyllo pastry,
paper thin sheets so delicate you can’t imagine being able to handle them
without tearing, and brushing them with melted butter. Layer after layer. Mom
said fifty layers but she could have been exaggerating. It was a lot, however
many there were.
She’d cut the pastry into two pieces. Then the nut and honey
filling, topped by the other half of the sheet of phyllo pastry stacks. Syrup
is poured over the entire pan of baklava after it bakes. Makes my mouth water
thinking about it.
Looking back on the experience, I realize many people would
feel intimidated by the surroundings of this restaurant. The urban decay is
prevalent; the whole area is dystopian, post-industrial, kind of Mad Max at
Thunderdome-ish.
If they had braved the area and parked, the guys at the door
would have scared them away -- not because the young men were a threat, but because they adorn themselves differently than mainstream society.
Once inside, the volume of music may have
compelled them to leave. Nobody meets you and seats you, you choose a booth or
table and sit down. In fact, you don’t see employees; they are busy in the back
performing other duties. So chances are high that most people would leave, or
leave after a few minutes of sitting and seeing no staff.
And it’s a shame
because they would have missed some damned fine authentic Mediterranean food.
Their loss.
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