Laid Bare: Essays and Observations, Judson, Tom [best self help books to read .TXT] 📗

dark, I saw that five of the tables were empty. At the sixth sat an old lady dressed in black, her white hair tied in a tight bun and a pair of gloves resting on the table next to a black purse. Before her was a plate of food and a half-liter of wine. I nodded to her as I sat the table nearest the door, but she just sneered in response.

The owner emerged from the kitchen and greeted me in Italian. Neither of us spoke the other’s language, so he took me by the elbow to a table placed just outside the kitchen door. Here the dishes of the house were proudly displayed. I attempted to explain that I didn’t eat meat, but when he insisted—in English—that his pork chops were as beautiful as children, I agreed to try them.

The old lady watched me as I ate and read my book. I found it difficult to concentrate under her gimlet eye and raised my glass to her as I took a sip.

Again she sneered.

I finished my meal and paid the bill, thinking this would be a good place to come back to tomorrow. It was just across the Arno from the Vatican and near all the sights I wanted to see and explore. And the pork chops were as beautiful as children.

As I passed the old lady’s table I nodded to her and, as I bent my head toward her, saw that what had appeared to be a sneer was actually a cleft palate; a “harelip.” I hurried out of the restaurant, uncomfortable and embarrassed.

To earn a living after my grandfather died, my grandmother ran what was essentially a private nursing home. She “took in ladies,” as she called it.

One of Gram’s ladies was an old, mean woman with a cleft palate. My sisters and I were frightened of her when we visited and would avoid as much as possible having to speak to her. When this woman was well into her seventies someone, somehow, paid for her to have corrective surgery. She returned home to my grandmother’s a smiling, sweet old lady.

I don’t know if her countenance really improved with her appearance or if her deformity had disguised what had been a sunny nature all along, but we were no longer frightened of her.

When I returned to the café the following day I decided to assume the old lady’s sneer was her way of returning my smile when I greeted her with a “buon giorno” as I passed her table.

The third day, as I approached the restaurant, I saw her standing just outside the door, looking expectantly down the street in the opposite direction. She saw me as she turned and hurried inside to her table. I passed through the beaded curtain and stopped at her table to wish her good day. The old lady still didn’t respond to my greetings, but I was no longer afraid of her. I sat at a table and enjoyed a scallopini that was as beautiful as a child.

I saw no reason to alter my routine on my final day in Rome. As I stepped into the café I heard not only the radio that sat on the little table against the wall, but three chattering voices as well.

My friend had company; two old ladies with hair just as white and dresses just as black as her own. Their conversation stopped abruptly as I entered the restaurant. I walked directly over to their table, made a little bow, and said, “Buon giorno, Signora.”

“Buon giorno,” she replied, as her old lady friend looked first at me and then at her.

Two years later, on my next visit to Italy, I managed to find the little café with the vaulted ceiling in the warren of streets across the Tiber from The Vatican. It had gone out of business and was vacant. I cupped my hands and put my face up to the glass in the door. I’d like to say I saw a table with a pair of white gloves lying neatly on the faded cloth. But the room was empty.

All that was left was the sign above the door and a memory of pork chops as beautiful as children.

OYSTERS, ROCKEFELLER?

“Sure, I’d love to go. But, it’s pricey, y’know? Aren’t you always broke?”

Such was the response from my cousin Frannie when I asked if she’d like to join me for oysters and martinis at The Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal. I’ve been treating myself to the occasional visit to that elegant subterranean shoal a level and a half below 42nd Street for more than fifteen years now. And, yes, it is expensive, but it’s money well spent. I see nothing wrong with such an extravagance every six or eight months.

Besides, I feel slightly proprietary of the place as several major scenes in my un-produced screenplay are set there.

Since Bruce died I usually sit at the counter by myself; a dozen oysters chilling patiently on the chipped ice spread out in a wide, white dish on the bar in front of me as I take in the hubbub of the place. But, I hadn’t seen Frannie (Bruce was her cousin, after all) in quite a while and I knew her company would be as glittery as the terra cotta tiles that line the walls and ceiling of this landmark restaurant. Our family is convinced Alison Janney based her character of C. J. Craig on “The West Wing” on Frannie, so not only is time spent with her time to be treasured, but one has to stay on one’s toes, as well. (It seems cousin-bating is her favorite sport.)

What better spot than The Oyster Bar to debate current events and lob bon mots back and forth at each other, defending our points with the parry and thrust of a tooth-picked olive?