1921
Mary,
Nope, not yet. No sign of him. And it’s too late to make the nickname stick, because I’ve practiced giving it to him so many times in my head it’ll sound rehearsed if I actually let the words out. I’ve taken to daydreaming about the postman, which, given his penchant for corny jokes and beet soup, is not much fun at all.
Maybe a new fella will waltz in tomorrow and order the raisin pie. Maybe one of the tall, ginger-haired boys just arrived from County Clare. Or a muscled automobile mechanic from the garage on Montrose Avenue. Or better yet, a buttoned-up banker from First Chicago.
Oh, thank God in heaven our private thoughts don’t spool from our ears on ticker tape. I’d be committed to a mental ward lickety-split.
Speaking of cuckoo clocks, Mr. Hahn left the dungeon of his office and graced the restaurant with a visit today, just before the lunch rush. I shouldn’t complain—he pays us on time and leaves us alone, so why should I give a fig if he’s not Mr. Congeniality?
He motioned for Jimmy, the hooligan busboy, to follow him into the storeroom. They came out with an electric sign to replace the tin one hanging over the door. The script was fancy, bright and wrong .
“Shouldn’t that say Albrecht’s?” Hildy said, asking what the rest of us were thinking. Albrecht was the family name of the previous owners, who opened the restaurant in the golden glow of the Gay Nineties. Nearly every living soul in the neighborhood—and all of the dead ones—knew the name Albrecht’s.
“It is time for a change,” Mr. Hahn answered, a note of finality in his voice. He held up the sign for us to admire. Mondlicht Café.
Jimmy scratched his head. “What does it mean? Why isn’t it in American?”
“It means moonlight,” I offered. But I wondered, too. Why not in English?
Mr. Hahn gently lowered the sign onto its side. He picked up a soiled cloth from the counter and began wiping his glasses. “It has international appeal,” he finally said.
“It has sex appeal,” Hildy muttered under her breath, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from giggling. She’s not quite right—it is more romantic than lurid. I felt my mouth curve into a smile—a real-deal, from-the-heart smile. “I like it, Mr. Hahn,” I said. “I really do.”
He nodded curtly, then began giving Jimmy detailed orders for the sign’s installation. I was nearly overcome by the desire to help—the Albrecht’s sign suddenly seemed crass and pedestrian, and I wanted it gone, gone, gone!
Some customers entered and Mr. Hahn returned to his damp hovel. I suspect he sleeps there. He is not married, though he must be at least forty. His collar is often dirty and he never reads the funnies or eats sweets and always looks like his idea of a good time is sucking on a lemon.
Where in the world did the idea for that sign come from?
Tuesday, December 20, 1921
Sweet Mary (Mother of God!),
He’s back! I know I shouldn’t be this excited, but I am. I am!
Oh, it’s a real beaut of a story, and I can tell it in gorgeous detail because I haven’t been able to think about anything else since this afternoon.
So...without further ahh-doo...
For the past few days, I’d practiced exactly what I would say should he return, but when he walked in the door, I could only nod hello. When he casually lowered himself onto the counter stool, I somehow managed to pass him a menu with shaking hands. I’ve heard that can happen—sudden muteness—but strangely, I had a million witticisms running wild through my head. I just couldn’t pluck out the right one.
Rachel saved me. She belongs to Marta, our humorless fry cook, and can’t be more than six if she’s a day. School’s out for the holiday, and the streets are full of tykes with red noses and eager smiles—the sight does a heart good. Sadly, Rachel couldn’t join in. She’s got the sniffles, so the poor thing was stuck sitting at the counter all day. We put her to work stringing
Mary,
Nope, not yet. No sign of him. And it’s too late to make the nickname stick, because I’ve practiced giving it to him so many times in my head it’ll sound rehearsed if I actually let the words out. I’ve taken to daydreaming about the postman, which, given his penchant for corny jokes and beet soup, is not much fun at all.
Maybe a new fella will waltz in tomorrow and order the raisin pie. Maybe one of the tall, ginger-haired boys just arrived from County Clare. Or a muscled automobile mechanic from the garage on Montrose Avenue. Or better yet, a buttoned-up banker from First Chicago.
Oh, thank God in heaven our private thoughts don’t spool from our ears on ticker tape. I’d be committed to a mental ward lickety-split.
Speaking of cuckoo clocks, Mr. Hahn left the dungeon of his office and graced the restaurant with a visit today, just before the lunch rush. I shouldn’t complain—he pays us on time and leaves us alone, so why should I give a fig if he’s not Mr. Congeniality?
He motioned for Jimmy, the hooligan busboy, to follow him into the storeroom. They came out with an electric sign to replace the tin one hanging over the door. The script was fancy, bright and wrong .
“Shouldn’t that say Albrecht’s?” Hildy said, asking what the rest of us were thinking. Albrecht was the family name of the previous owners, who opened the restaurant in the golden glow of the Gay Nineties. Nearly every living soul in the neighborhood—and all of the dead ones—knew the name Albrecht’s.
“It is time for a change,” Mr. Hahn answered, a note of finality in his voice. He held up the sign for us to admire. Mondlicht Café.
Jimmy scratched his head. “What does it mean? Why isn’t it in American?”
“It means moonlight,” I offered. But I wondered, too. Why not in English?
Mr. Hahn gently lowered the sign onto its side. He picked up a soiled cloth from the counter and began wiping his glasses. “It has international appeal,” he finally said.
“It has sex appeal,” Hildy muttered under her breath, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from giggling. She’s not quite right—it is more romantic than lurid. I felt my mouth curve into a smile—a real-deal, from-the-heart smile. “I like it, Mr. Hahn,” I said. “I really do.”
He nodded curtly, then began giving Jimmy detailed orders for the sign’s installation. I was nearly overcome by the desire to help—the Albrecht’s sign suddenly seemed crass and pedestrian, and I wanted it gone, gone, gone!
Some customers entered and Mr. Hahn returned to his damp hovel. I suspect he sleeps there. He is not married, though he must be at least forty. His collar is often dirty and he never reads the funnies or eats sweets and always looks like his idea of a good time is sucking on a lemon.
Where in the world did the idea for that sign come from?
Tuesday, December 20, 1921
Sweet Mary (Mother of God!),
He’s back! I know I shouldn’t be this excited, but I am. I am!
Oh, it’s a real beaut of a story, and I can tell it in gorgeous detail because I haven’t been able to think about anything else since this afternoon.
So...without further ahh-doo...
For the past few days, I’d practiced exactly what I would say should he return, but when he walked in the door, I could only nod hello. When he casually lowered himself onto the counter stool, I somehow managed to pass him a menu with shaking hands. I’ve heard that can happen—sudden muteness—but strangely, I had a million witticisms running wild through my head. I just couldn’t pluck out the right one.
Rachel saved me. She belongs to Marta, our humorless fry cook, and can’t be more than six if she’s a day. School’s out for the holiday, and the streets are full of tykes with red noses and eager smiles—the sight does a heart good. Sadly, Rachel couldn’t join in. She’s got the sniffles, so the poor thing was stuck sitting at the counter all day. We put her to work stringing
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