He called me "dear"

There's a venerable coffee house in my neighborhood.  It's been in the same spot for 41 years. You have one in your neighborhood, too. Family owned, laminated menu, breakfast all day. It's where everyone eventually ends up because while they do nothing really well, they do a little of everything. Omelettes, burgers, salads. When you and your friends can't come to a consensus, you come here.

The one in our neighborhood has hit hard times. Much of it has to do with construction. The road in front of the coffee house is torn up to replace the water and sewer lines. There's some problem with parking, too, but since I don't drive I don't pay attention. 

For the first time in memory, this restaurant is really struggling. Times are tougher now than during covid. One of the waitresses posted a video of the owner, sitting alone at the empty counter, looking out onto empty booths. She captioned it: George is worried.

Let me tell you about George. The restaurant owner was born in Greece and is now in his 70s. He's usually stationed by the register, near the door. I wouldn't say he "greets" customers because he's very gruff. No "hello" or "good morning," he addresses you by telling you how many are in your party and points you to a table or booth. ("Four. Sit back there.") Years ago, he and I had a stand-off because he stopped giving pennies as change but didn't post it near the register. I stood there waiting for my 3¢ and he just wordlessly stared at me until I finally figured it out on my own. I didn't take it personally. 

 

Because he's George. He's always been there, seven days a week, growling like a toothless old lion. Years ago, his youngest son took active management of the restaurant and seemed to know how irascible George appeared. While Dad glowered from the register, his gregarious son moved from table to table, topping off customers' coffee and making everyone likes the hash browns. 

 

Four years ago, George's son suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack. George seemed to visibly shrink. A framed photo of his son is now beside the register.

 

This restaurant prevailed through covid and the loss of George's son. I can't have it close down now because of a sewer.  

 

I've been going out of my way to dine there more. Since I travel by shoe leather, not car, I'm not deterred by road construction or parking issues. And, for my friend Nancy's birthday, I asked her and her husband to join me there for lunch to celebrate.

 

My guests stopped in the restroom while I settled the check. George spoke to me.

 

"Your friend had nice birthday?" he asked. Obviously he'd been eavesdropping on our conversation. I assured him she had. As I put my change (no pennies) in my wallet, he said, "Thank you, Dear."

 

George called me "dear." I've been floating on air ever since.

 

Photo by Tyrone Sanders on Unsplash