"Sorry, guys. Turkey's our biggest seller here. But there's none left. We ran out at 5," Gertrude, the waitress said.
Bob Shryock My first home away from home at Thanksgiving was a dingy fourth floor room with communal bathroom and view of the alley at the YMCA in Binghamton, N.Y., Circa 1959. It wasn't exactly the Taj Mahal.
I'd already been denied a few days off for the holiday because of a manpower shortage in the sports department and I'd pretty much given up on finding a turkey dinner I could afford on my paltry $45 a week starting salary. A 15-cent Piel's draft beer and two hard-boiled eggs at the corner bar would have to suffice.
After work one day, Joe, the Sun-Bulletin's trusty police reporter, made me an offer I could refuse, but, alas, did not.
Joe, who, like me, was single, said he'd buy me dinner Thanksgiving night at the diner across the street from the newspaper. I'd eaten there before, but usually stuck to greasy burgers and fries with gravy.
"Nice offer, Joe. Very much appreciated. Count me in."
There was something very odd about the diner that night. We were the only customers. And Gertrude was the only apparent waitress. Does three constitute a quorum?
Gert, as Joe called her, handed us menus. I really didn't need one.
"Easy," I said. "Turkey and all the trimmings, just like at home. And please, Gert, an entire pumpkin pie."
Gert seemed a tad surprised at my reaction.
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"Sorry, guys. Turkey's our biggest seller here. But there's none left. We ran out at 5."
I laughed nervously. I figured there was a joke hidden in there somewhere. No turkey? On Thanksgiving?
Joe, undismayed, laughed, too.
"Same as last year, right, Gert?"
"Right, same as last year. But we did have plenty of ham. Remember? And the chef knocked 50 cents off your bill."
It occurred to me the tone of the conversation could go on like this for awhile so Joe boldly said, "Let's order."
"Gert, I'd like a hot open-face roast beef sandwich, french fries and gravy," he said.
I'd had the same meal, hundreds of times, at the Big Dipper back home.
"Sounds great, Joe. Gert, I'll have the same."
We ordered, then chatted, laughing at them running out of turkey.
The food arrived and Gert winked at me. "Watch this," she whispered.
Joe, wearing a light-colored tie and white dress shirt, picked up the gravy-laden sandwich with his fingers, and took a big bite as the gravy quickly covered his clothing including his pants. He, uh, was a mess.
I was amazed.
"He does it all the time," Gert explained with a shrug.
I picked up the next restaurant tab at Binghamton's appropriately-named Piquant Pig drive-in.
Joe had soup.
With a fork.
Bob Shryock may be reached at bshryock@njadvancemedia.com. Follow South Jersey Times on Twitter @TheSJTimes. Find the South Jersey Times on Facebook.
