WHAT’S FOR LUNCH?

Eight men, poured from one mold, stand impatiently in front of the glass door. It is 7:01 A.M. Miltie bends down to the inside of the glass door and unlocks it. The eight men wait until he has backed away before proceeding to a table already set for them. Cheap looking flatwear is wrapped in eight napkins, placed on paper doilies with Militie’s name printed in one corner. One carafe of decaf coffee and one regular await the anxious eightsome. A basket of kaiser rolls, cream cheese and tiny cardboard containers of grape jelly give them snack time to set up foursomes before their orders, not yet given, are taken. Tuesday morning get togethers are as fulfilling as dinner at the Ritz.

To a man, the men are nattily dressed in Bermuda shorts, appropriately colored or patterned shirts. They go off the back nine 8:15 and 8:25, time enough to chew before swallowing. . Julie, the youngest ‘old’ waitress is quick on the finger. The orders are usually the same except they change who gets which. Everything is good. Schmaltz herring with sour cream, eggs over light with kasha, 3 orders of kippers with fried onions, French toast, the thick eggy kind, not burned, not raw, and pancakes extra thin or don’t bring them. Julie salutes and turns in the orders.

The men laugh, ridiculing other golfers, even themselves, tell jokes. Every Tuesday is fun time. Their laughter brings Miltie out of the kitchen. He squeezes a wooden chair next to Max at the end of the table, tells a dirty joke and the men guffaw. He tells another, replaces his chair and struts back to the kitchen.

Two young men, regular breakfast customers, arrive, sit wherever they want as all tables except one are still empty. They wear crisp white tennis shorts. Their legs bulge with muscles and their arms look like Popeye’s. For the last three years they have been club champs, with no close contenders in sight. Miltie, followed by Julie, greets the celebs. She takes their familiar order, two tomato juice, 2 bowls of Quaker oats with blueberry sauce and warm milk, 2 glasses of Evian. Sol, 76, at the golfers’ table, quietly remarks to Buddy, 77, ‘Health nuts. They think that is going to keep them alive forever.’

Workmen begin to form a line at the take out counter. Miltie handles the quick orders for coffee, bagels, cream cheese, an occasional cheese sandwich on rye. Regular customers seat themselves. Everything is as it should be–normal. The golfers, first in, are ready to pay their check when a loud alarm goes off and water starts pouring from the ceiling sprinklers. Chairs scrape, diners cover their heads with paper napkins, while semi-calm empties the shop. Fire engines clang, block the street, divert traffic. Damage is bad but could have been worse.

Outside Miltie stands near the curb, He sobs, wrenches his hands and waits for doom. Carlos, the cook, grabs him around his shoulders and cries with Miltie. ‘Boss, there was too much oil in the pans for the kippers. Some ran over, reached the gas burners and burst like fire works. Look, my hat is singed.’ ‘Carlos, it was an accident. You didn’t do it on purpose. You could have been badly burned. Don’t worry, Carlos, my insurance will cover everything and I’ll be re-opened in a few weeks. Stick around, the police may want to talk to you.’

‘Mr. Miltie, you have to find a new cook for when you open again. I’m not frying any more kippers, not making matzoh balls that customers say are too hard, too soft. Maybe Taco Bell can use me. They let help take home left overs and my kids will love that.’

The eight wet golfers and two semi-pro tennis players are going to miss Milties for a while they think... but by the next Tues. their loyalty flags. The two groups meet at Abie’s Bagel Emporium only two blocks from Miltie’s.

NOBODY ORDERS KIPPERS AND ONIONS !