Editor’s Note: Prior to the time last year when San Diego Jewish World began publishing Karen Galatz’s Matzo Chronicles, she wrote one titled “Sweet Memories of a Short Order Cook.” At the recent convention of the National Federation of Press Women, that column won a second place. With Galatz’s permission, we republish it here.
By Karen Galatz
The Matzo Chronicles
RENO, Nevada — When I was 12, I had a terrible chronic ear infection. We had just moved across the country to a new town. I didn’t know anybody, couldn’t go to school, was in constant pain, suffered balance problems and had ringing in my ears.
I was just miserable. But I found weekly salvation in the kindness of a short-order cook, and my father.
For months in the winter of 1966, my father and I would drive at 5:30 a.m. from Stony Brook in Long Island to Manhattan where he had his electrical shop, and I had my dreaded weekly appointment with the hated ear doctor.
We left at that God-awful early hour because my father could not stand commuting in traffic. He was a morning person. Cheerful. Alert. The whole drive he would try to entertain me with stories about my childhood imaginary friend Timmy and history lessons. I, now much too sophisticated for my old imaginary friend, sat sulking, bleary-eyed and often tearful and terrified at the prospect of another tortuous appointment with the doctor.
We would arrive in the city so early that even the normally impossible task of finding a parking space near my father’s shop at 1204 Lexington Ave. was easy.
Car parked, we walked a block or two in the freezing cold to a tiny restaurant. I’m not sure you could even call it a restaurant. It was no wider than a railroad car. Just a grill, a Formica counter and 10 stools. The place was old, the ceiling low. It was humid, always packed with people and oh so welcoming.
The man at the grill never fully turned around, just swiveled his head slightly to acknowledge the newest person to grab a coveted spot at the counter or listen to the takeout order shouted at him by the person standing over the shoulder of somebody seated. He provided equal service to all — working-class men in coveralls, prim secretaries all made up and wearing high heels even on icy days, and Wall Street types in pinstripe suits. Nobody got special treatment. Nobody got special attention. First come, first served.
There was only one customer he ever took the time to talk to, and that was me. He knew what I was having. My order never changed. It was just like my father’s: a hard roll with butter. The only difference was I got hot chocolate with whipped cream from a can, instead of my dad’s black coffee.
“You going to that mean old doc today, kid?” he’d always ask in a gruff but somehow gentle voice, as the hash browns sizzled behind him. “Well, give him a little kick when he’s done. That’s what I’d do.” Then, he’d wink at my dad and turn back to the griddle and the 10 orders of eggs, waffles and pancakes he had going.
My father and I would sit there silently, smearing the softened butter from those little foil packets onto our rolls. We’d eat, drink, then bundle back up and head out into the cold to his shop. He’d unlock and roll open the metal grates. Greet his workers warmly. Then quickly bark the morning service call orders to them. They’d smile at him, pat me on the head, gather their tools and leave.
All morning long, I’d sit there, reading. Sometimes I’d take a break to dust the soot off the toasters, irons and other small appliances displayed in the shop window. Sometimes I’d just watch my father. Just like the short-order cook, he treated everybody the same, whether the customer was a housewife with a broken blender, someone seeking a major re-do on a fancy Fifth Avenue brownstone or a man begging for a dime for a cup of coffee.
This “lesson” of treating all people with kindness and respect is, of course, one Judaism places great value on. It is central to the teachings of the Torah. In my season of illness and pain, I was lucky to have this teaching so vividly illustrated each week by the hard-working cook and my equally hard-working father.
Hours would pass. My father would look at the clock on the wall and nod. Off we’d go to the doctor, my hand clutching his big bear paw. Somehow, I’d get through the appointment and the day. If I was lucky, we’d go to the American Museum of Natural History afterward.
Finally, we’d drive home. It would take a long time. There was a lot of traffic. My father would sigh a lot but still manage to tell me stories. Relaxed now, I could laugh. Invariably I’d find a crumb or two from the morning’s hard roll on my coat.
I remembered all this recently when my husband Jon and I went out to brunch. Our favorite diner was packed, so we sat at the counter. I watched the short-order cook at work, marveled at his skill and had a little cry. Jon didn’t have to ask why. He just hugged me. He knows this story about the NYC short-order cook and he also knows how much I miss my father.
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You can read more of Karen’s work at Muddling through Middle Age or contact her at karen@muddling.me.