Still, being thirty-two and living with my parents in my old hometown was not exactly what I thought I would be doing at that age. Rather than emptying my stuff that first night, I just left everything but a duffel bag in the truck and went inside. All I needed was a change of clothes, my toiletries, and some pajamas. Hell, I still had some of my old clothes hanging up in the bedroom just like I left it over ten years before.
I decided not to wait to go back to work. I spent one day moving in my stuff, then moving what I didn’t need into a storage unit, and then the next day, I was up and at the diner. Mom went with me to introduce me to the staff and let them know that whatever I said was the way it was going to be. She trusted me. The staff seemed to be willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, though there was some obvious hesitation. Then Mom left me to handle things.
In the first five hours, I had already made a new hire, a girl who came in saying she heard we were looking for waitresses and needed her first job. She was sixteen and spunky and had no prior knowledge of the diner other than going there to eat, so it was ideal. She wouldn’t be comparing me to anyone.
By hour six, I was in the kitchen, talking with the cook. I had expected resistance to changing the menu, but the head cook was actually pretty open. As long as we didn’t do anything as ridiculous as some of the changes my sister made, he was cool with them. His primary concern was that I wasn’t going to slash the budget and suggest he buy stock marinara sauce to serve spaghetti with.
“She really suggested that?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, sighing. “I swore to her on the grave of my grandmother, I would never serve a jar of marinara sauce to anyone and claim I cooked. Nona would strike me down from beyond the grave.”
“Well, I completely agree with your Nona,” I said. “I would never, ever ask you to do that.”
“Then we will have no problems,” he said. “Besides, I hate spaghetti. I know that’s a sin for an Italian boy, but I do. I love food, but I never need a thousand of something. Give me lasagna or rigatoni but not something you can get out of a jar.”
“I have a feeling I’m going to like you,” I said. “We’ll chat some more later. If you don’t mind coming in a little early tomorrow, maybe we can go over some new menu items.”
“What about the lasagna?” he said suddenly. “I love to make it, and I know some of our guests here would like it. I know it takes a long time to make servings, but if we only did it, say, on Sunday evenings?”
“Are you going to use your Nona’s recipe?” I asked.
“As much of it as I have figured out,” he said.
I laughed. “Alright, Sunday evening we are adding Nona’s Lasagna to the menu.”
“Alright,” he said, pumping his fist. “I’ll see you early tomorrow.”
I ducked out of the kitchen as he hollered for an order up. A waitress named Rebecca appeared to grab it. She seemed like one of the better people the place had, albeit part-time and pregnant as hell. As she came back after delivering the order, she came into the office with me and sat down heavily in one of the chairs.
“Sorry,” she said. “Just need a second. My feet are killing me.”
“No, no worries,” I said. “You take as many breaks as you want.”
She laughed. “You’re only telling me that because I’m pregnant.”
“No, I’m telling you that because I desperately need people who will work here and aren’t idiots,” I said. She laughed and took a sip of her water. “Seriously, I have about six of you who didn’t quit when my sister took over and ruined the place. I’m just glad you’re here. I heard a couple customers tell you that you were the only reason they still came.”
“I know and that’s sweet of them, but I have a hard time believing them,” she said. “They still came when I quit to work at the tattoo parlor.”
“I heard about that,” I said. “That’s so cool.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I think it is too. I love doing tattoo work. But you know, small town. Got to make that paper.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Good luck doing that here.”
“I know,” she said. “But I also didn’t want to leave this place in the lurch. After I finally started doing tattoo work, I didn’t hate being here as much anymore and kind of missed the hecticness of it. Besides, my Deacon would kill me if I didn’t make pancakes from our batter recipe, and he swears they taste better here.”