The restaurant's owners positioned the establishment as a relatively upscale eatery, so the bowtied busboys carried big oval trays, not bus pans. And the trays had to be hoisted to neck-level as we lugged them to the kitchen. Classy. The task required brute strength at times -- there might be 50 or 60 pounds of dirty dishes on a tray -- and the final stage of each tray-run was the trickiest part: Flatware and crockery teetering on the left shoulder. Right hand out to shove the big swinging door. Eyes open for cranky divorcée waitresses bringing steaks and lobsters in the other direction. Nod to the Puerto Rican dishwasher shrouded in steam. Don't slip, don't trip, don't give any lip.
But the kitchen also had loud music, and it wasn't just classic rock. On Saturday nights, in particular, the cooks would flip to the FM pop station's dance mix, the one broadcast live from a club near the airport or the fairgrounds or the riverfront. It was a mood changer, especially if the joint was busy. This was the winter of '87/'88, so the DJ would invariably play an extended mix of "Pump Up The Volume" by M.A.R.R.S. Suddenly everybody liked that "rap stuff." The divorcées would wiggle it just a little bit -- while still berating the cooks. The other wait-staff clique -- the flaming gays -- would lip-sync to the chorus. The cooks -- mostly Greek, mostly in their 20s and 30s -- would act like they didn't notice the song. But they probably went to that club when they weren't working.
I loved the brief infusion of proto-house, because I was desperate for a taste of urban bustle. While that 12" single spun on the radio, eating up 6 or 8 minutes of another grinding Saturday night, I could imagine that I wasn't trapped with half-satisfied people in a surf-and-turf restaurant near a corn field and a mini-mart and a rent-a-center and a stone quarry and a roller rink. This was a place of action, and maybe the world wouldn't be so goddamn boring forever.
(read the complete and ongoing Secret History here)
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