I'll bet it wasn't his idea at all. Nell's probably throwing William out. She never liked him that much and now she says all he does is talk about death. She doesn't want to hear it with a birthday coming up. Says it's bumming her out."
"What time's his plane get in?"
"Eight-fifteen, if it doesn't crash, of course. I thought I'd bring him back here for salad and lasagna, maybe go up to Rosie's for a beer after that. You want to join us for supper? I made a cherry pie for dessert. Well, actually, I made six. The other five go to Rosie to pay off my bar tab." Rosie's is the local tavern, run by a Hungarian woman with an unpronounceable last name. Since Henry's retirement from commercial baking, he's begun to barter his wares. He also caters tea parties in the neighborhood, where he's much in demand.
"Can't do it," I said. "I've got an appointment at seven and it may run late. I thought I'd grab a quick bite up at Rosie's before I head out."
"Maybe you can catch us tomorrow. I don't know how we'll spend the day. Depressed people never do much. I'll probably sit around and watch him take his Elavil."
The building that houses Rosie's looks as if it might once have been a grocer's. The exterior is plain and narrow, the plate-glass windows obscured by peeling beer ads and buzzing neon signs. The tavern is sandwiched between an appliance repair shop and an ill-lighted Laundromat whose patrons wander into Rosie's to wait out their washing cycles, chugging beer and smoking cigarettes. The floors are wooden. The walls are plywood, stained a dark mahogany. The booths that line the perimeter are crudely built, destined to give you splinters if you slide too fast across the seat. There are eight to ten tables with black Formica tops, usually one leg out of four slightly shorter than the rest. Mealtime at Rosie's is often spent trying to right the wobble, with the endless intervention of stacked paper matchbooks and folded napkins. The lighting is the sort that makes you look like you've been abusing your Tan-in-a-Bottle.
Dinner was uneventful once I knuckled under and ordered what Rosie told me. She's a formidable presence: in her sixties, Hungarian, short, top-heavy, a merciless enforcer for the food Mafia. The special that night was called gulyashus, which had to translate to "beef stew."
"I was thinking of a salad. I need to clean up my act after too much junk food."
"Salad is for after. The gulyashus comes first. I make very authentic. You're gonna love it," she said. She was already penciling the order in the little notebook she'd begun to carry. I wondered if she kept a running account of all the meals I'd eaten there. I tried to peek at the page once and she rapped me with her pencil.
"Rosie, I don't even know what gulyashus is."
"Just hush and I'm telling you."
"Tell me then. I can't wait."
She had to get herself all settled for the recital, like a concert violinist with her feet placed properly. She makes a point of speaking lumpy English which she apparently thinks contributes to her authority. "In Hungarian, the word gulyas means 'herdsman.' Like a shepherd. This dish originate in ninth century. His very good. The shepherd cook up these cubes of meat with onion, very little moisture. No paprika then so I don't use myself. When all the liquid is boil out, the meat is dried in the sun and then stored in this bag made of the sheep's... how you say..."
"Balls?"
"Estomach"
"Previously digested. Very tasty. I'll take it. I don't want to hear the rest."
"Good choice," she said complacently.
The dish she brought was actually what my aunt used to call "galoshes," cubes of beef simmered with onion and thickened with sour cream. It really was wonderful and the tart salad afterward was the perfect contrast. Rosie allowed me to have a glass of mediocre red wine, some rolls and butter, and a cheese tray for dessert. The dinner cost only nine dollars so I couldn't complain. Dimly I wondered if, for total obedience, I'd sold out
"What time's his plane get in?"
"Eight-fifteen, if it doesn't crash, of course. I thought I'd bring him back here for salad and lasagna, maybe go up to Rosie's for a beer after that. You want to join us for supper? I made a cherry pie for dessert. Well, actually, I made six. The other five go to Rosie to pay off my bar tab." Rosie's is the local tavern, run by a Hungarian woman with an unpronounceable last name. Since Henry's retirement from commercial baking, he's begun to barter his wares. He also caters tea parties in the neighborhood, where he's much in demand.
"Can't do it," I said. "I've got an appointment at seven and it may run late. I thought I'd grab a quick bite up at Rosie's before I head out."
"Maybe you can catch us tomorrow. I don't know how we'll spend the day. Depressed people never do much. I'll probably sit around and watch him take his Elavil."
The building that houses Rosie's looks as if it might once have been a grocer's. The exterior is plain and narrow, the plate-glass windows obscured by peeling beer ads and buzzing neon signs. The tavern is sandwiched between an appliance repair shop and an ill-lighted Laundromat whose patrons wander into Rosie's to wait out their washing cycles, chugging beer and smoking cigarettes. The floors are wooden. The walls are plywood, stained a dark mahogany. The booths that line the perimeter are crudely built, destined to give you splinters if you slide too fast across the seat. There are eight to ten tables with black Formica tops, usually one leg out of four slightly shorter than the rest. Mealtime at Rosie's is often spent trying to right the wobble, with the endless intervention of stacked paper matchbooks and folded napkins. The lighting is the sort that makes you look like you've been abusing your Tan-in-a-Bottle.
Dinner was uneventful once I knuckled under and ordered what Rosie told me. She's a formidable presence: in her sixties, Hungarian, short, top-heavy, a merciless enforcer for the food Mafia. The special that night was called gulyashus, which had to translate to "beef stew."
"I was thinking of a salad. I need to clean up my act after too much junk food."
"Salad is for after. The gulyashus comes first. I make very authentic. You're gonna love it," she said. She was already penciling the order in the little notebook she'd begun to carry. I wondered if she kept a running account of all the meals I'd eaten there. I tried to peek at the page once and she rapped me with her pencil.
"Rosie, I don't even know what gulyashus is."
"Just hush and I'm telling you."
"Tell me then. I can't wait."
She had to get herself all settled for the recital, like a concert violinist with her feet placed properly. She makes a point of speaking lumpy English which she apparently thinks contributes to her authority. "In Hungarian, the word gulyas means 'herdsman.' Like a shepherd. This dish originate in ninth century. His very good. The shepherd cook up these cubes of meat with onion, very little moisture. No paprika then so I don't use myself. When all the liquid is boil out, the meat is dried in the sun and then stored in this bag made of the sheep's... how you say..."
"Balls?"
"Estomach"
"Previously digested. Very tasty. I'll take it. I don't want to hear the rest."
"Good choice," she said complacently.
The dish she brought was actually what my aunt used to call "galoshes," cubes of beef simmered with onion and thickened with sour cream. It really was wonderful and the tart salad afterward was the perfect contrast. Rosie allowed me to have a glass of mediocre red wine, some rolls and butter, and a cheese tray for dessert. The dinner cost only nine dollars so I couldn't complain. Dimly I wondered if, for total obedience, I'd sold out
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