Karen Galatz
Journalist, Columnist, Blogger

Memories of a Short-Order Cook… and My Father

Photo of the author with her father, Julius Galatz. (Photo by author's brother, Malcolm Galatz.)

When I was 12, I had a terrible chronic ear infection. We had just moved across the country to a new town. I didn’t know anybody, couldn’t go to school, was in constant pain, suffered balance problems, and had ringing in my ears.

I was just miserable. But I found weekly salvation in the kindness of a short-order cook and my father.

For months in the winter of 1966, my father and I would drive at 5:30 a.m. from Long Island, New York into Manhattan where he had his electrical shop, and I had my dreaded weekly appointment with the hated ear doctor.

We left at that God-awful early hour because my father could not stand commuting in traffic. He was a morning person. Cheerful. Alert. The whole drive he would try to entertain me with stories about my childhood imaginary friend Timmy and history lessons. I, now much too sophisticated for my old imaginary friend, sat sulking, bleary-eyed, and often tearful and terrified at the prospect of another tortuous appointment with the doctor.

We would arrive in the city so early that even the normally impossible task of finding a parking space near my father’s shop on the Upper East Side was easy.

The car parked, we walked a block or two in the freezing cold to a tiny restaurant. I’m not sure you could even call it a restaurant. It was no wider than a railroad car. Just a grill, a Formica counter, and 10 stools. The place was old, the ceiling low. It was humid, always packed with people, and oh, so welcoming.

The man at the grill never fully turned around, just swiveled his head slightly to acknowledge the newest person to grab a coveted spot at the counter or listen to the takeout order shouted at him by the person standing over the shoulder of somebody seated. He provided equal service to all — working-class men in coveralls, prim secretaries all made up and wearing high heels even on icy days, and Wall Street types in pinstripe suits. Nobody got special treatment. Nobody got special attention. First come, first served.

There was only one customer he ever took the time to talk to, and that was me. He knew my order. It never changed. It was just like my father’s: a hard roll with butter. The only difference was I got hot chocolate with whipped cream from a can, instead of my dad’s black coffee.

“You going to that mean old doc today, kid?” he’d always ask in a gruff but somehow gentle voice, as the hash browns sizzled behind him. “Well, give him a little kick when he’s done. That’s what I’d do.” Then, he’d wink at my dad and turn back to the griddle and the 10 orders of eggs, waffles, and pancakes he had going.

My father and I would sit there silently, smearing the softened butter from those little foil packets onto our rolls. We’d eat, drink, then bundle back up and head out into the cold to his shop. He’d unlock and roll open the metal grates. Greet his workers warmly. Then quickly bark the morning service call orders to them. They’d smile at him, pat me on the head, gather their tools, and leave.

All morning long, I’d sit there, reading. Sometimes I’d take a break to dust the soot off the toasters, irons, and other small appliances displayed in the shop window. Sometimes I’d just watch my father. Just like the short-order cook, he treated everybody the same, whether the customer was a housewife with a broken blender, someone seeking a major re-do on a fancy Fifth Avenue brownstone, or a man begging for a dime to buy a cup of coffee.

This “lesson” of treating all people with kindness and respect is, of course, one Judaism places great value on. It is central to the teachings of the Torah. In my season of illness and pain, I was lucky to have this teaching so vividly illustrated each week by the hard-working cook and my equally hard-working father.

Hours would pass. My father would look at the clock on the wall and nod. Off we’d go to the doctor, my hand clutching my father’s big bear paw. Somehow, I’d get through the appointment and the day. If I was lucky, we’d go to the American Museum of Natural History afterward.

Finally, we’d drive home. It would take a long time. There was a lot of traffic. My father would sigh a lot but still manage to tell me stories. Relaxed now, I could laugh. Invariably I’d find a crumb or two from the morning’s hard roll on my coat.

I remembered all this recently when my husband Jon and I went out to brunch. Our favorite diner was packed, so we sat at the counter. I watched the short-order cook at work, marveled at his skill, and had a little cry. Jon didn’t have to ask why. He just hugged me. He knows this story about the NYC short-order cook and he also knows how much I miss my father, gone now 39 years.

About the Author
Karen Galatz is the author of Muddling through Middle Age, which provides women (and men) of a certain age a light-hearted look at the perils and pleasures of growing older. An award-winning journalist, her national news credits include The MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour and the Nightly Business Report. Her fiction and non-fiction writing has been published across the U.S. More of Karen's writing can be read here: muddling.me A native of New York City and Las Vegas, Karen now lives in Reno, NV with her husband, two children, and one neurotic dog named Olga, rescued from Florida’s Hurricane Erma. It all makes for a lot of geography and a lot of humor.
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