So after a long grey morning full of dark and brooding, early morning subway rides, consulting maps and hectic last-minute decisions; after all morning staring into the empty faces of men and women on working day commutes full of humdrum sighs and uninterested glances; after being lost and impatient and lost again (the only redeeming moment of which was an accidental overground passage into Queens and seeing the sun rise on graffiti’d tenements); after finding the Bryant Park and the New York library closed, which led to more mismatched underground rides and sore sandal-feeting through floursescent tunnels in the midst of one big impatient hurry; after all this, finally coming up at 116th by Morningside Park, finally breathing fresh air in fresh space with healthy joggers bikers women and babies in strollers weaving in and out of giant old elms and live oaks on paved pathways.
Strolling like a visitor through the great corridors of Columbia University on Amsterdam avenue, feeling the great weight and tradition of historic and entrenched Academia, and now here comes the Field Hockey team in thier blue suits, pony tails, heavy bags on shoulder straps all passing by to climb into the big and idling game day bus. And here come around freshly pressed slacks and business-suited, clean shaven boys (the sons of politicians in their youth primes unknowing) walking around clique-like across immaculate green lawns through the grand pavilion full of history and the buddings of society, and everything happening in the shadow of the old Parthenon-looking Library, and lounging on her massive steps. Strolling eventualy down Broadway with no agenda at hand but stumbing into, and realizing here it is what I've been after all of this time and worth the wait, stumbling now into
“Tom’s” restaurant here for 25 years they say: the busy plate-clinking group chattering kitchen steaming commotion throb of the city’s timeless heart. Everything loud and going going to the Saturday morning drum-time – regulars and dark coffees, teas and scrambled egg plates with big Italian sausages and extra plates for toast softly crunch butter spread. A big colorful room about living room size with newspaper clippings adorning the walls, long rows of table and booth down the center and every single one full with students, families, you name ‘em’s, with the breakfast bar on one side, big plate glass front window looking out onto the street from where I came and the window to the kitchen in the back where three or four cooks go busily at their tasks – and the whole place warm and merry, close packed and bursting with excited morning optimisms.
I sit next to an older woman at the breakfast bar, rapt with attention at her copy of the “Wall Street Jounral” until Louis (apparently manager/server/father of the joint, striding an easy 6’ tall with big barrel chest, thick dark hair and well kept beard and wearing a soft scowl like he really knows everyday secrets between creased cheek folds and deep inside Apron pockets) until Louis comes over and slides a plate of bacon eggs toast right underneath her. She looks up startled, looks from Louis to her plate and back up to Louis again, says “Louis what is this? Does this look okay to you?” holding up her bacon slightly uncooked. And Louis retorts “Ah! Of course it’s OK what do you think: Louis wants to get you sick? Eat the food!” and goes on about his business chuckling to himself. But lady persists, “Louis I just don’t know I mean, you could’ve left it on a little longer or at least I don’t know maybe -” and Louis has had enough, snatches the bacon straight out of her hand on his way back into the kitchen lamenting to himself “Ah Margie never likes it how I cook it never good enough eh? What am I gonna do with this woman? Jackie what do you think? This bacon isn’t bad you think?” And so on he goes chuckling and mumbling to himself and cracking jokes at every customer he comes across. And every customer he comes across says “Ey!” and “Ay, Louis!”
Now from outside comes old Saul sauntering in with grey curly hair draped in a trenchcoat and shuffling in on 70 year old legs, says “Ay! Everyone is here today the whole crew eh? Gahaw haw haw…” and settles into his seat. Louis slides this old fatherly figure a coffee with cream like probably has done so many times before. A few minutes go by and soon I watch as, during a brief pause between taking orders and general running’s-around, Louis comes over to the end of the counter and leans one hand there like he probably has done so many times before (and I think must be a worn groove of the eternal hand there in the marble bar like the smooth stone of St. Pete’s toe in Rome rubbed clean from a-million adoring visitors) and stares out the window at the passerbys; stares at the shop across the way, at the unusually fine fall weather and all of the noted normalcy’s on Broadway street he recognizes so well.
He stares silently like this out the window and I think he'll stay there all morning until suddenly the old doorman (who earlier seated me here at the bar next to this woman) yells across the room in his native greek tongue about something or other important and directed at Louis. I turn my attention back to Louis and actually watch as his mind pulls itself from the deep recesses of it’s mad reverie; and only after a minute passes can he issue some half-discernible reply to the old doorman. But the doorman persists and now another server, Joe – like Louis but smaller both in personality and physical stature – gets involved from the other side of the bar and pretty soon all three are arguing merrily in quick Greek phrases and word gestures, anticipating each other as only age-old co-workers can know. And all the while I’m trying to imagine what they are talking about though it doesn’t matter, and suddenly it ends with all three throwing their heads back in laughter and turning mindlessly back into their respective job routines, throwing glasses and taking orders and wearing well fitted white polo shirts and identical hats, all the while refilling coffees teas ice-waters and whatever else’s.
