By Steven Sorrentino
Whilst his father shrunk a unexpected ailment that left him paralyzed, Steven Sorrentino stowed away his desires of Broadway stardom and again domestic to West lengthy department, New Jersey, to aid his kinfolk out. taking on Clint's nook, his father's luncheonette, Steven discovered himself on the grill flipping porkroll, serving a counter filled with eccentrics, and confiding in Dolores, the crusty head waitress with a specific aptitude for butchering the English language. From this strange publish, Steven watched his ill father who, even though restricted to his wheelchair, refused to just accept defeat or even controlled to additional his occupation in neighborhood politics. by some means, the extra his father triumphed, the extra Steven's personal lifestyles looked as if it would stall. to blame and pressured, Steven made a surprising and determined choice -- now not figuring out that he was once approximately to bump into the secrets and techniques of his father's resilience. Luncheonette is an impossible to resist real tale concerning the unforeseen classes lifestyles brings -- and of the foundation we discover in the slightest degree most likely locations.
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Extra info for Luncheonette: A Memoir
I looked at John. ” I grumbled through a mouthful of potato. “Heh . . heh . . heh . . ” Uncle Tony patted his belly like a department store Santa. “All right. ” I put the home fries down and wiped my hands on my apron. “You can ﬁnish behind the counter. ” John’s voice was still changing well into his freshman TABLE GUEST RECEIPT TABLE GUESTS 40 SERVER LUNCHEONETTE year of high school. I noticed how tall he was getting, though he tended to hunch his shoulders, except when he tried to assert himself.
I’d hold for the shattered looks on their faces—reliant on the old regulars to react on my behalf—before plopping down a porkroll-egg-and-cheese sandwich in front of the shocked patron like I was a bartender delivering a stiff drink. The routine began to wear thin, leaving me high and dry, until, that is, about eleven, when a sculpted vision of testosterone (if not a missing link) walked in the front door. I watched Pepsi Man squat down at the showcase to restock the Mountain Dew, his blue poly uniform hugging a pair of legs more developed than some nations.
Mmm, if good karma had an aroma . . ” I took a cleansing breath then tossed a book of matches at Herck the Jerk. I was determined to ﬁlter him out of my universe, concentrating more on the show tune playing in my head and the smell of toast wafting through the air as the coffee brewed. Once the pot had ﬁlled, Norma made her way around with reﬁlls before tending to the dishes piled high in the sink like she was worshiping at a sudsy altar. She smiled at me, perhaps in tacit acknowledgment that—especially on Dolores’s day off—the clinking of ﬂatware along the counter sounded more like the chirping of birds.