Two Venerables
Their names were V and D. V with a greying bun tightly secured. I can’t exactly remember the fashion of her day, perhaps at almost the nape of neck, with a hairnet. D had equally outdated jowl length curled hair dyed intensely black, which accentuated the powdery wrinkles of her face. They were large women, one overweight to portly. They were the old war horses of the restaurant-Clydesdale type beasts of burden at a go to destination not all that far from Atlantic City and the racetrack. A well reviewed restaurant then, also well known for it’s lounge ambiance-which included an alliteratively named piano man, several brocade vested bartenders-usually in bad humor when servicing waitresses-and a gregarious owner running his father’s establishment, often hobnobbing with customers he considered important. Some of those customers were renowned horse trainers, jockeys, musicians and perhaps even mobsters. It was purported that Frank Sinatra had a contract he couldn’t refuse, which was to perform in Atlantic City once a year. It was reported that he indeed dined at the restaurant. There was also a funky, fun casual fare bar downstairs where one could find F. Flyboy, having more than a few. Who knew commercial pilots could get that drunk and still play a hell of a game of pool?
The food was very good at the restaurant. V and D worked in the sacred dining room. We weren’t allowed to penetrate their territory, and they made sure we knew that. We were young students working seasonally, and they constantly had little more than a scowl for us, if that. I tried to pry conversation from them and it was a no go. They made it clear that they were not interested in being even cordial on the job. They hauled heavy steel trays through swinging doors into the place with the elegant table cloths and real candles. We the younger resented that fact that those two old bags had the cream of the crop tippers, as the dining room was coveted by many big spending regulars and curious tourist who wished to gawk at them.
We were allowed to work in the basement bar or the lounge, which had leather booths and handsome but fake marble table surfaces. Interesting things happened in the lounge. A mother once shoved a full teaspoon of horseradish in her young son’s mouth to stop his tantrum. I waited on the uber famous jockey Willie Shoemaker. He was tiny tiny with a wide leering grin and a taller blonde companion. He taught me the meaning of ‘deep south’ which means keep the tip for yourself, don’t add it to the house pool.
It’s only now that I realize why V and D were so very unaccommodating to us, if not downright hostile. We. Were.Their. Replacements. They had worked hard there for decades, for the father, now the son running this popular and prosperous spot for the in crowd. And the work was getting harder for them. Unlikely that they had anything like a pension, and perhaps their sour demeanor was because they were at risk a meager existence once they were unable to work in this highly physical profession. But being young can be merciless, and because they were so unfriendly (like I said, I tried, I did) I callously mentally scoffed at the unsightly network of varicosities on poor V’s legs in her support hose. I perfectly imitated the set of D’s thin magenta lips-not a good color for her- causing roaring laughter in my posse.
And now I am old-older than they were. They have come to mind because they have been a silent part of how I was able to become a take-charge-of my-life woman, against all odds. They hauled heavy loads of steaming lobsters and chateaubriands (which they sliced at the table) put same heavy plates down delicately on table tops without spilling a drop on the linen, and must have nursed aching backs, swollen legs, and arthritic wrists more than I’d like to imagine. They fought hard for an honest living at a time when there were few open avenues for working women. So way too late I raise a glass to two who were definitely underappreciated by me. Regardless of how bitchy they were to us upstart kids.