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A Second Chance at The Flatland Five in Dillon
By
OldMack©2005
From the noise it made coming down the grade I figured the engine in the VW Beetle was blown. That it would take a wad of cash to fix it was such a certainty in my mind that I never raised the lid of the engine compartment to look. The snow storm buried the car while Chris and I were in the restaurant working.
At the end of the day we sat at one of the tables in the dining room with George Pataki and drank Coors. All three of us were exhausted.
Some of the truck drivers who had eaten breakfast had stayed until we were ready to close; they only left reluctantly to climb in to the sleeper cabs of their trucks. They were the smart ones. Others had eaten, put on their tire chains, come back for a warm up cup, filled their thermoses and headed up the grade.
When the word went out over the citizen’s band that there was a new waitress at the Flatland Five, truckers going both east and west pulled in to have a look. They hadn’t been disappointed. Even in her long handled underwear, Levi’s, mountain boots and heavy sweater Chris drew their eyes. Her movements held them. The level gaze of her blue eyes conveyed meaning; there was none of the expected banter. There were orders taken, filled quickly and the food was hot when placed on their tables. Most of the tables seated four and soon after starting most of them were filled.
Many of the customers were local construction workers who had come to the Skelly station to fill the tanks of their pickups, eat lunch and head back to Breckenridge. Only a few of the locals patronized the restaurant; that first day they were deputies, highway patrolmen, and a few emergency paramedics driving the ambulance: people who had to be out in this kind of weather.
As Chris sorted bills and stacked them, it was obvious that she’d made over a hundred bucks in tips. When George counted the till, he said it had been the best day he could remember. All three of us had dined on rib eye steaks, and a salad that could have been a meal all by itself. I had a warm, fuzzy feeling that comes from being well fed. The beer and altitude had gone to my head.
George’s proposition came right out of the blue. Perhaps he’d been thinking about it for some time, but it seemed to come to him in a flash.
“I like the way you two work. I have strong feeling I can trust you. I have been working without a break for a year. . . maybe longer. Much time with no help. Sometimes with help that steals from my till. Some who steal food or serve their friends who go without paying. So I stay and work every day and watch close what goes on. Now, I’m tired. I want to take some time off. I want to fly to Tarpon Springs and see my family. Maybe I’ll be gone a week or two, if you will run this place for me while I’m gone. Will you do this for me?”
Chris looked at me and nodded. She folded the bills and pocketed them and began to count her change, making stacks of quarters.
“I think we would like to do that, George. There’s just a question of finding a place to sleep. We have some friends who live nearby, but we’ve worn out our welcome there. Do you have any suggestions?”
George pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “Come. I show you something.” I followed George through the kitchen and out the rear exit. There was a thirty foot Airstream trailer parked behind the building. George opened the trailer door, stamped his shoes on the step to knock the snow off and led me inside.
For a bachelor’s trailer, it was cleaner and tidier than I expected. There were two bedrooms, a small bathroom with a shower, and a comfortable living room.
George said: “Come, we change the sheets on the double bed. You and Christine can sleep in the big bed. I sleep on the small one in the other bedroom tonight, if you like.”
“It will be fine with me, but we’ll have to see what Christine thinks.”
As we made up the bed, George said: “I pay you each one hundred dollars a week, plus your food and place to sleep. With tips Christine makes, that’s good money, no?”
“That’s good money, George. We may have to have the engine in our car rebuilt before we can get out of Dillon. Maybe you heard it when we pulled in here this morning. So, we need the work. I hope Christine agrees.”
Chris had stacked her change on the counter near the cash register and was waiting for George to count it and exchange it for bills. George chuckled.
“You work that register all day, and now you wait for George? I don’t understand.”
“You already counted the till, George. I would prefer that you do it.” Chris said.
George opened the till, counted out the bills and put the change into the compartments of the tray.
He turned to me. “Please, to show Christine the trailer.” He was opening another bottle of beer as we went out through the kitchen.
“I hope this isn’t going to be another Kremling, Mack. Tell me it’s not.”
“This is a palace compared to Harold’s dump in Kremling, Chris. You’ll see.”
Chris was favorably impressed. She flopped on the double bed, bounced it a bit, and then said: “This is fine with me. Did you discuss wages with George?”
“How does a hundred a week, each sound? That’s on top of our meals and the bed.”
“Great,” Chris said, “I made a hundred and twelve in tips today. It may not be that good every day, but who knows. It could be more.” She bounced off the bed and hugged me. You keep George entertained with your stories while I take a shower. I’ve got clean underwear in my purse.”
I went indoors and poured myself a cup of coffee and carried it to the table where George sat with his beer. “She likes it, George. She’s taking a shower and asked me to keep you occupied for a while. Okay?”
George raised his beer bottle as if in a toast. I raised my coffee cup. Efkarishsto. You know what it means?”
“Thanks. I spent some time in Greece: Patras, Erymonthos, Piraeus and Athens. Did I mention that I am a member of the Hellenikos Orivatikos Syndesmos?”
George’s thick brows bunched up. “You speak Greek, why didn’t you say so.”
“No, George, I don’t speak Greek. I just learned a few words.” I said, and then I told him about climbing with the Greek Alpine Club and being made an honorary member.
When I finished, George’s buck teeth were showing, his eyes sparkled. He grew nostalgic. He named the village in the Peloponnesus where he had been born. He talked about the civil war. I got the impression that George had been on the wrong side, the losing side from the sound of his voice. George had cousins in Tarpon Springs, Florida who had sponsored him and he had already become a “one hundred per cent American,” since his arrival.
“I have a sweetheart in Tarpon Springs,” George confided, “If you and Chris stay two, maybe three weeks, I get married and come back with a wife. She’s good waitress, like Christine. Together, we make good business here. . . . They are making tunnel through mountain so we not have to drive over that damned pass going to Denver. That Berthoud pass kill many people, cars and trucks both fall off road.
Maybe we have more luck and we open big restaurant. Not here, maybe in Florida. I don’t like cold weather. But it’s okay for now. Now is the time to make money. Live cheap and put money in the bank. If that girl marries me, we work together and make lots of money. Maybe I’ll buy restaurant near Disney World. I have a house in Kissimmee now. I rent it, let tenant pay mortgage.”
“George, I have no doubt that you will be a wealthy man some day. All a person needs is a dream and hard work. Maybe a good wife and a little luck too. It never hurts to have a little luck. I feel very lucky that our car broke down and we met you, George.” I raised my coffee cup and said “Efkaristho, George.” George clanked his empty beer bottle against my empty cup.
There was a parade to the bathroom at five o’clock the next morning. Chris led it. She was fast too. When she stepped out, she was wearing a soft cotton dress of many colors that clung to her willowy figure in all the right places; she had hung it in the bathroom the night before while showering and the wrinkles had been steamed out. Her panty hose gave her leg a tanned appearance. The hem of her dress came down to her knees and had just enough flare to let her walk freely. On her feet was that good pair of comfortable waitress shoes she’d bought in Portland. Chris didn’t comb her hair; she merely brushed it with a round, bristled brush which restored the ringlets of her perm. Her only makeup was a bit of mascara on her lashes, to emphasize her clear blue eyes. Her eyes had a happy sparkle that morning. She was cheerful and looking forward to making changes in the dining room setup that would make her job easier.
While I showered and shaved, George unlocked the restaurant, lit the burners under the grill, and the oven. Let Chris in. She immediately filled the coffee urns and started them brewing. George took the till out of his small safe and put in into the cash register, then returned to the kitchen. George kept two large flat pans for his bacon. Each pan held two pounds of sliced bacon when the individual slices were arranged on the pans. He took them out of the walk in and slid them into the oven to slowly simmer. Expecting it to be a busy day, George stacked four flats of eggs on the shelf above the range, wiped out the egg pans with a clean towel and set them on the burners with only the pilot light to warm them. When I came into the restaurant the aroma of fresh coffee and simmering bacon greeted my nostrils. George suggested that I cook several pounds of link sausages, and mix up some pancake batter.
“I know the routine, George. I got the lay of the land yesterday. Have you thought of adding biscuits and trucker’s gravy to the menu? It’s cheap and I make mean gravy.”
“It’s a good idea, but I just haven’t taken the time to do it. You know how to make rue?”
“Sure, George. Suppose I take care of that, while you shower and shave.” I said.
Chris came through the swinging doors at that moment, smiled at George and said: “If you took a pair of scissors and trimmed that bush, George, the female customers would enjoy that smile of yours. I have a pair in my purse. . .”
George chuckled. “I have Remington shaver. Nice trimmer on it too. You see a new George when I come back.” He promised.
I mixed the ingredients for the biscuits in the mixer, rolled out the dough and cut fifty of them; they filled two ten by fifteen inch baking pans, which I covered with dampened cheese cloth, while I made the rue for gravy. I unwrapped eight cubes of butter; put four of them in a pan on the back of the range to slowly melt. The other four cubes I chopped in six chunks and melted them in a large skillet and began sifting flour, while stirring the butter with a whisk until the flour was distributed throughout and was the consistency of play dough. This mixture is placed in a bowl and stored in the reefer until needed.
When George returned, he was dressed in a pin striped double breasted navy blue suit, a crisp white shirt and red necktie. Chris pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket, did some magic with it and returned it with three points protruding. George’s wingtip shoes were shined, his mustache trimmed and he was preceded by the aroma of Old Spice after shave.
“You really are handsome, George,” Chris said, adjusting his necktie just so. “Your Anna will be swept off her feet.”
George glanced at his kitchen and saw the Mack had it under control. “I keep some menus under the register on the shelf. That will give you an idea of what I’ve been serving, but feel free to make any changes you think will improve the business. Okay?”
Mack and Chris nodded. George told them again that they had saved his life, then handed them the keys and left by the back door to meet the taxi that would drive him to the air strip for his charter flight to Denver.
Chris poured coffee for her and Mack, and asked if there was anything she could help with in the kitchen. Mack shook his head, as he lit up a cigarette. He noticed that Chris had forsaken his Winstons and was smoking Kools again. “To each his own,” he mumbled; he couldn’t handle mentholated cigarettes because the reminded him of Vicks salve, a cold remedy.
“Pencil in biscuits and “trucker’s gravy” on the menu,” Chris. I can probably keep serving them until noon. We’ll see how it goes. I’m going to start a big pot of chili and let it simmer all day. If it doesn’t warm up today, that may be a money maker. What do you think?”
“Are you nearly set up for breakfast? If you are, I’m going to unlock the front door. Let me know if things get too hectic. You may have noticed that I moved the gang toaster out front and have the bread on the cart by the coffee urn. You put up the basics, and I’ll garnish the plates. I stole your pan of melted butter and paint brush to use out here. Maybe you should melt some more to use on the potatoes. Tell me when you are ready to go.” Chris was thinking ahead; Mack was playing catch up. She amazed him with her intelligence and common sense. He recalled how quickly she had proven that she was not just another air headed blonde with a shapely figure.
Mack went back into the kitchen, removed the trays of bacon from the oven and stacked them on the back of the range to keep them warm.
He mixed three quarts of pancake batter from premixed ingredients (just add water). He set the pitcher of batter on the shelf above the range beside the flats of eggs where it would be handy.
A row of fries was sizzling on the griddle. Mack loaded it with two dozen sausage links in rows beside the spuds. His head ached dully: “must be the altitude,” he mumbled.
He slid two pans of biscuits into the oven, closing the door with his heel as he turned his attention to prep the egg pans. He preferred cooking eggs in pans to flipping them on the griddle with the spatula. Half of the cook top was reserved for pancakes.
He placed a sauce pan half filled with water on a burner to simmer for poaching eggs. After turning the spuds and rolling the sausage links, he tried to think of what he was missing.
“Gravy!” he said aloud.
Chris stuck her head in the door. “Anything wrong, Mack?”
Chuckling, he said: “My head is up and locked again. I forgot the gravy. No problem. That’ll take maybe ten minutes and I’ll be ready for the rush. I need some aspirin. Seen any?”
“There may not be a rush. It is spitting snow again. I hope George’s plane can make it out in this kind of weather. Would you like some help, more coffee? Want to give me a hug and kiss for luck. Last chance, you know.” Chris said.
“I’m all over flour and grease, Chris. You kiss me, but not too close. You’ll ruin that beautiful dress.” Mack leaned towards her and she kissed him on the lips, while running her fingernails up the nape of his neck.
“Okay, none of that my dear; I’ll burn the breakfast and have to start over. Back to your dungeon, wench.” Mack raised his spatula and pretended to make fencing moves toward the door. Chris giggled at his antics.
“Back to work, Mack . . . and don’t forget the gravy. It’s on the menu.” Chris went back to the register and tallied the cash George had left her that morning.
Mack cut a cup of the rue from the chunk in the bowl, dropped it into a cast iron skillet and watched as it began to melt. He scooped up the cooked sausages and put most of them in a pan back by the bacon. He carried half a dozen browned sausages to the cutting board and hacked them into tiny bits, each a quarter inch of smaller. He scooped the chopped sausage into the melting rue, and began to stir in water. As the gravy thickened, Mack added half and half until the mixture turned cream colored, stirring it with his whisk as it simmered. When the gravy was nearly done, he checked his biscuits and saw that they were fluffy and nicely browned. He cleared the chopping block to make room for the trays of biscuits.
Chris handed him a couple aspirins and a glass of cold water. Mack chewed the pills and washed them down.
When the customers began arriving, he could warm the biscuits on the cooler side of the grill in half a minute. He poured his gravy into a bowl and settled a film of plastic wrap on its surface to keep a skim from forming and set a ladle nearby to dish it up.
“I’m ready, Chris!” He shouted “Bring on your hoards of hungry men. We’ll send ‘em on their way smiling.” He could hear keys rattle as she unlocked the front door and flipped on the “Open” sign. He also heard diesel engines gearing down, air brakes hissing.
MORE is on the way, stay tuned.
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