ode to sofia’s
there’s the down-trodden guy. he always has on a black t-shirt under a gray suit. he looks rumpled. he looks tired. his black hair is greasy. he doesn’t smile much or get involved in the discussions between the other regulars. he’s more of a watcher. i’ve run into him once or twice around times square. each time he was just standing there on the sidewalk not doing anything. he recognized me as that piano player guy and gave me an awkward head nod as i walked by. one time i asked roger, the biker bartender with the 200 i.q., what the guy did. told me he was an entertainment lawyer.
there’s the guy-who’s-always-here guy and he is always here. or will be arriving shortly. he’s a tall, indian guy of about 50. a little salt and pepper at the temples. his eyes are deep set and the dark circles around them give him a slight raccoonish appearance. he is always dressed well. like a gentleman. a nice, open-collared shirt (with a sweater in the winter) and a sport coat with slacks. never a suit. no tie. simple brown loafers for shoes. without the tassels. he drinks white wine. he always claps for the band. if there is a single woman sitting at the bar, he will be on her. he chatted up my girlfriend once and she found out he played basketball,
‘back in india where i’m from,’ as he put it.
one time he came in and sat down next to me at the bar so i asked him,
‘damn, dude. what do you live upstairs or something? you’re like the guy-who’s-always-here guy.’
he picked up his sports section and snapped it open and with out looking at me said,
‘leave me alone.’
there’s the loud guy. thin. wiry. the way his close-cropped hair exposes his forehead and his taut, tan skin stretches across his face and with his hooked nose, when he cocks his head up and laughs that high staccato laugh whenever he tells a joke makes him resemble a baby eagle. he’s the kind of guy who puts his arm around you when he’s talking to you. and will interrupt himself to yell across the bar,
‘HEY JIMMY! OVER HERE!!’
waving the friend over with a sharp hand gesture and then going back to his conversation,
‘what was i saying??…..oh yeah. so donny says to joey and get this…..you’re not going to believe this……….’
he seems like he could be a coke dealer. but i overheard him talking about some golf rules dispute in last week’s weekend foursome. golf and blow. i don’t see it. maybe he’s a stage manager.
there’s the stage hand i occasionally smoke weed with. shoulder length red hair parted down the middle. a wispy mustache and goatee and a gap in his teeth that shows when he crinkles up his face and laughs that burn-out laugh,
‘a-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.’
i think he’s a friend of roger’s. he seems a little out of place here. he always seems distracted. like he’s thinking about something. or nothing.
there’s the cop who moonlights at the sheraton across the street. he comes in to eat the free bar munchies. he looks like a cop. he has to wear a suit for his after hours gig in security but he always looks uncomfortable. like the suit doesn’t fit quite right. i asked mike, the maitre d’ where the cop was. hadn’t seen him in awhile and mike told me he retired and lives on his boat in florida. he couldn’t have been more than 45.
there’s the gay guy. that might not seem like much of a distinction and he might not even be the only gay regular - sofia’s is not a gay bar, per se- but he is the most flamboyantly gay, gay guy. he is always impeccably dressed and perfectly coiffed. he extends his pinky when he sips his fruity blender drink revealing a beautiful star sapphire pinky ring. my dad had one like it that i wear on my index finger sometimes. we had a conversation about it once and he is very nice but i never got his name.
there’s nick the metal-head bartender. he is a stocky guy with a modest mullet. he has a boat and loves to fish and lives in jersey. one time i got it wrong and asked him where out on long island he lived. (jersey….long island…it’s easy to mix them up.) he made a face and said,
‘i don’t live on long island. fuck long island.’
he has a kid who’s the most important thing in his life. i’ve heard him talking to her on his cell phone during his shift. he is a good father - reassuring and encouraging and full of love. one time after he hung up with her i asked him if that was his daughter. he said,
‘yeah.’ and then looked past me and smiled to himself,
‘she’s a good kid.’
he split with the mother a few years ago.
‘she’s a little crazy,’ he told me once.
nick is understated but becomes animated when we talk about metal bands we like or have seen.
we agree on most things:
sabbath isn’t sabbath without ozzy no matter how much we liked the mob rules with dio.
that the guy after bon in ac/dc is good but bon was the shit.
that michael schenker’s solo stuff wasn’t as good as the scorpions.
that def leppard didn’t rock as hard after the drummer lost his arm in a car wreck.
and we were both surprised when rob halford came out. d’uh. hell bent for leather?
but we disagree on metallica. i think they sound better since they changed producers and cut their hair off. he likes the old stuff and was appalled by the some kind of monster documentary. that documentary was pretty ridiculous.
there’s the kitchen. to get fed on your gig at sofia’s it is necessary to go into the kitchen, order it and get it yourself. i love to cook and i love kitchens but i am afraid to go back there. it’s like a pirate ship. after going through the unmarked, swinging double doors that servers will go in or out of either way, the first thing you see is the dishwasher to the left. a blast of steamy, soapy air hits your face and you see through the mist behind the stacks of dirty dishes a sad figure leg ironed to the base of the dishwasher. a constant reminder to all who pass that one fuck up could land you here. across from the dishwasher, the bread steamer. here is where they turn old bread into perfectly presentable and possibly edible fresher bread. just past the bread machine there are three treacherous steps always slick with i don’t know what leading back to the line and the salad guy. the last time i went back there went something like this:
i order my salad without dressing and the guy never looks up. i have come to know he has heard me because my salad always appears wordlessly and without recognition.
‘thank you,’ i say anyway.
i turn around and bend down so i can see the cook through the stainless steel window where the food comes out. i tell him,
‘spaghetti and meatballs, please.’
and he squints at me, replying, ‘you got it, boss.’
he smiles or picks something out of his gold tooth with the inside of his cheek. he has a mustache that has exactly 12 hairs. he is fat and sweating profusely. he wipes his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. i look around. across the room, two guys are doing some prep work at a table and there are two other guys sitting on chairs peeling potatoes and watching a soccer game with the sound off. there is only the sound of sizzling or boiling or dishes, pots or pans clattering. no music. little talking. after just a few minutes, i see the cook combining the pasta with the sauce and putting it over the stove. he whips around to plate the dish, deftly sliding the contents of the pan onto a plate just as another cook passes behind him slapping him on the back and saying,
‘cuidado!’
the cook shoves my food through the opening and he seems to be winking at me. i do a double take and realize he’s not winking, his left eye socket is missing its eye. he must notice the horrified look on my face because he reaches up to his face, fingering the empty socket and furrowing his brow which he nervously wipes with his sleeve as he looks down at the floor, searching for something. i have the plate in my hand and am pulling it through the service window when he grabs the plate back from me and holds it up a couple of inches from his face while he digs through my pasta with his other hand. his eyebrows raise and he smiles and i catch a glimpse of the gold tooth again. he pulls the eyeball dripping with tomato sauce out of my dish and pops it into his mouth, swirling it around while wiping his hands on the front of his apron. he spits it out into his palm and in one motion, pops it back into the whole in his head. he pushes the plate back through the window, giving me a satisfied look, but i just say,
‘no thanks. i’m not hungry now.’
and i scramble out of there, slipping on the steps but catching myself to a chorus of laughter behind me. i never went back there again. now i just eat the free bar food which if it’s meatballs or the baked ziti, is good. and if it’s the pizza or sausage and peppers, is not.
there’s mike the maitre d’. mike loves teddy wilson and is an avid sports fan favoring tennis. he is disgusted by just about everything else. one time roger got me drunk and talked me into playing some hendrix tunes. mike didn’t call me for five years. now i play in a style that doesn’t go past the 1950’s and he hires me all the time. we have had many discussions about tennis - an old passion of mine. he thinks i am a character but tolerates me anyway. if i am dressed in a way that is not to his liking, he’ll smile and shake his head when he sees me,
‘hullo, dred.’
i just recently found out he plays the saxophone. one time i asked roger where mike lived. and if he lived alone. he seems like he’s alone.
‘how the fuck should i know?’ was what he said.
in 8 years of bar tending there, roger told me he never had one personal conversation with mike.
‘he’s kind of a strange guy,’ he added.
but i like the strange people. the loners. the wounded. it makes me feel good to make mike laugh - seems to me his life could use more humor. new york city can wear you down to a nub.
there’s roger the biker bartender with the 200 i.q. he does the saturday times crossword puzzle like nothing. speaks five languages, including latin. has a nice harley. roger is 6’3 and about 210 but he gracefully vaults over the bar to go outside and smoke. i would not want to piss him off. one time i forgot to pay my bar tab and the next time i saw him he flashed on me pretty hard. but he got over it. some musicians can’t stand him. he has told many drummers to play softer in no uncertain terms,
‘this ain’t fucking carnegie hall!!’
but i think roger is one of the most interesting people i’ve ever known. he’s a biker with a 200 i.q. one day roger bought a bar in ft. myers and now he lives down there. he runs the place with his son. my mother and her old lady friends go there for lunch all the time. they love the truffled mac and cheese. the burgers are good, too. she’s having her 89th birthday party there. she knows if he’s not in when she stops by how to find him. if the bike’s in the foyer of the bar he’s around the corner at the cigar bar smoking. if it isn’t, he’s riding around.
