Served – mostly true stories

I wish I could do this story justice for you now, aloud, with great hand gestures and my own laughter to cover your embarrassment for me, alas you’ll just have to imagine that

black and white photo of small santos, heavily shadowed

Mary hides in the unnecessary kitchen, in a bar that wouldn’t even have a kitchen if the law here didn’t require it.

A lineup of waitresses in cheerleading outfits, 1984, at The Peppermill restaurant.

Our skirts at The Peppermill were so short that we had to wear flash pants. It’s not a great outfit for a fist fight.

Becoming a restaurant regular slowwwwwwlllyyy over time. Bruce in Haikus.

A half hour goes by. An hour. Two brandies, and now the guys in the kitchen are gone for sure, the snow is building up outside, and there’s the puff of his exhaust and his parking lights.  I’m calling the police. 

Doorway to restaurant, closed and sandbagged due to flooding

Sometimes, when your restaurant is in a basement, and the building is older than the State itself, sometimes the restaurant or the store or the street above you weeps, and the tears get all over you.

A white face towel folded to look like an elephant, much like napkins are folded to become animals, boats, hats, and hearts

The Connectedness of it All–as shown to me through napkins in an unlikely place.

People Cheers
Plate and Spoon
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