In her initial endorsement, Charlotte had mentioned this place seemed "authentic," but I don't think we were prepared for just how authentic it really was. It was nearing two o'clock, so the lunch crowd had already thinned out. We were seated and ordered our food. Over the croons of popular Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra songs on a player piano, we began hearing the voice of a hoarse, short-winded man escaping the cigarette smoke and dim lighting of the bar-area. At first we assumed it was probably just some loud mouth regular who, given the relatively empty state of the dining area, was being allowed to ramble on without reprisal from the wait staff. It became quite clear, however, that this person was very upset and very Italian, as he would randomly alternate English and Italian expletives.
As our meal continued quite pleasantly, we began to decipher some of what was being said. The loud man was indeed Mr. Gucci, owner and proprietor of Gucci's, and it seems that he was reprimanding his kitchen staff for inquiring about a raise for the forthcoming holiday season. He would say things like "I could have all of you replaced just like that..." and "I'm trying to turn a profit here..." and so forth.
Eventually, he shouted them down and they were content to turn tail, pile into a 1997 Ford Mustang of mismatching colors and a missing hood, and speed out of the parking lot, all the while listening to blaring Tejano music.
Mr. Gucci made the comment to a passing waitress that he couldn't afford another heart attack at the risk of constanly reproaching his cooks. He again took the stool at the far end of the bar, lit up another cigarette, and let his head slump down into his hands.
I'm not sure, but I think he was crying.
1 comment:
I trust you and Marshall were not too intimidated to by the Gucci name neglect the "You're drunk old man!" call.
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