Today's nugget is a beauty. One of the daytime lifers was a waitress named Mary Ann. She was a nice enough lady, but she was really out of place at the Hillcrest (if that was possible). She had worked lunches for years, and was there during my entire tenure. She was basically Maude Flanders, which would make her husband Ned Flanders and her two boys, Rod and Todd. Seriously. Dudley Do-right, and his family. They were a painfully white, God-fearing, classic nuclear family. It was always interesting trying to explain to her that one of the cooks didn't show because he was in jail, and the other one was sleeping one off outside, behind the garage.
-You can imagine at a restaurant where the clientele wasn't very discriminating, and management and hiring practices were spotty at best, that the food quality and handling practices dipped from time to time. Yes, I saw, and performed, some really nasty things in that kitchen. Nothing malicious or dangerous. Just lazy, for the most part. For restaurant people, this won't be shocking at all, and in the big picture, what I saw at the Hillcrest was not nearly as bad as things I saw at other establishments in my career. Like I said, the driving force was usually laziness, not malice, or even stupidity. You hear stories about under-trained kitchen folk alternating cutting up raw chicken and salad greens with the same knife, Well, duh. At the Hillcrest, it was usually more along the lines of a cook not wanting to bake off three more potatoes at the end of a shift for that last order, so he grabs a couple of bakers from the previous night's service out of the cooler, and throws them in the microwave.
-Well, this is what happened one day, and poor Mary Ann was on the receiving end of one of these "aged", re-heated baked potatoes. At the Hillcrest (like many supper clubs), the baked potatoes were given a simple slice with a paring knife when they were plated. At the table, the server would give the baked potato a quick four-finger squeeze, using the thumbs and pointer fingers to "open" up and present the potato. A little puff of steam would come out and the diner would dig in. Except, when Mary Ann squeezed this relic open, instead of steam puffing out, a cockroach crawled out, and scattered across the table, to a chorus of yelps and screams. Classic. Did I mention the place had a ridiculous roach problem?
Friday, December 24, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Fincher
In addition to Elroy, this guy is the number two reason for starting this blog. I will tread lightly here, but this guy is presumed still alive, and possibly still in Milwaukee. James Finch. His middle name may be some form of Lewis, or Louis. The Fincher worked at the Crest for my entire tenure (except for the last two weeks. Once we were told the place was closing, he didn't show up again. I never got to say goodbye to the guy, but I assume there was no point in sticking around for him). The Fincher made a huge impression on me. I had no idea at the time, but this guy indirectly taught me lasting things about life, the street, the inner city, and drugs that I would have never learned anywhere else.
-The Fincher was my first real introduction to an industry working black man. My aim in recalling, and typing, this info is to put it down from the angle of my teenage mind, not to sound like some clinical bullshit, or even worse, in an insensitive or racially unsettling tone. Times have changed, and I definitely have matured.
-I'm guessing the Fincher was in his late thirties when I started, and hence in his low forties when the place folded. I think that is the best I can do. I remember him pointing out his birthday on more than one occasion, but I don't recall any specific numbers.
-Habits, personality traits, and other thoughts:
1) He used a matchbook as a toothpick.
2) The guy lived and breathed Boston's first album. It was the soundtrack of this life.
3) His after work drink became known as the "Fincher Fizz". It was a small tumbler with anywhere from one to about 5 shots of rail brandy in it. No ice. And topped off with an eye dropper of Coke.
4) When cranking the radio, he would often ask if the song playing was the "LV"? What the hell did that mean? It was short for 'long version'. A good example would be "Do You Feel Like We Do?" by Frampton, or "Green-eyed Lady" by Sugarloaf, which were well known for radio edit versions. I still use this phrase.
--20110106
-I feel like adding to the Fincher post today. I still can't believe that any of us really got away with it, or didn't get seriously messed up, but he used to take us (me, and some of the other milky suburban white kids) down into the inner city to get high and party it up. He always lived in the neighborhood of State Street, or over near Highland Ave, up to about Center Street. In the range of 10th to about 27th Street. It was always somewhere different. Dumpy rent-by-the-week one bedroom joints. Usually with his wife Helen, who ended up working at the Crest later on. I specifically remember a place on about 34th and State. I went over there after work to pickup a dime of some classic "downtown brown" (ie crappy, dried-out ghetto schwag). I recall hanging out with the Fincher and his old lady, puffing up some brown, and drinking Thunderbird wine (remember that stuff?) out of a washed out peanut butter jar. We had a blast. Helen played some soul music on one of those handheld AM/FM transistor radios. One of those soul stations on the AM dial that is probably long gone now.
-The Fincher was famous for mis-interpreting song names and lyrics, as well as highlighting particular lyrical passages to great humorous effect. As you can tell from earlier notes, he a was a radio rat. I think this one of the many reasons we got along so well, since I'm always interested about what music is playing. The house radio at work was usually dialed into WKLH, classic rock. In the early 90's, KLH still had some balls.....not a lot, but more than it does now. Obviously, this is pre-internet, pre-mP3, pre-streaming, etc. We had two boom boxes in the kitchen. One in the dishroom, and one in the main kitchen (back by the salad department). They both played tapes, but it was really buyer beware on putting a cassette of any value in the dirty and gummed up machines.
-Some radio highlights/moments:
-"Evil Woman" by ELO. The Fincher always thought they were saying "Vehicle Woman", as "Vee-hicle Woman".
-"Oh, Girl" by The Chi-Lites (one of my favorite old soul tunes, by the way), was not a favorite of The Fincher's. When it would come on, he would give me a look of severe dis-satisfaction and say, "Ohhhh, not Old Girl!".
-Some play air guitar, but The Fincher played air bass. When a particularly pleasing bass line came on, he would hold his left hand motionless up above his head and shoulder, and slap his whole right hand, dangling off to his side, at about hip level. In other words, a wildly inaccurate portrayal of bass playing. Somebody commented, "Jim, what kind of bass is that? It looks like you are playing a single telephone cable strapped to a 2 x 4". One song that was guaranteed to get some air bass, was "Steppin' Out" by Joe Jackson. After the instrumental break in the middle, when the synth-bass comes back in playing that octave line, he would launch.
-As previously mentioned, Boston was king. Anything off of that first album was gold for him. It must have been something about all those processed guitars, or the faux heavy metal shrieking voice of Brad Delp, but the opening acoustic strums of "Peace of Mind", followed by the electric, and full band lead in, would send The Fincher into absolute overdrive. We would crank that shit when we were busting down at the end of the night....pounding beers, taking turns going "out behind the garage"....and we felt like complete kings. Like I said in an earlier post, I am proud to say that these were some of the (in the total sense of existence) best moments of my life. I had a total grab on the world as I knew it. My perception of the world was just the right size at this time, and I felt I really had a grasp on it. My work was tangible and real. It was clear when the day was done, and you knew immediately if you did a good job, and the people I was doing it with were on the same page.
-The Fincher was my first real introduction to an industry working black man. My aim in recalling, and typing, this info is to put it down from the angle of my teenage mind, not to sound like some clinical bullshit, or even worse, in an insensitive or racially unsettling tone. Times have changed, and I definitely have matured.
-I'm guessing the Fincher was in his late thirties when I started, and hence in his low forties when the place folded. I think that is the best I can do. I remember him pointing out his birthday on more than one occasion, but I don't recall any specific numbers.
-Habits, personality traits, and other thoughts:
1) He used a matchbook as a toothpick.
2) The guy lived and breathed Boston's first album. It was the soundtrack of this life.
3) His after work drink became known as the "Fincher Fizz". It was a small tumbler with anywhere from one to about 5 shots of rail brandy in it. No ice. And topped off with an eye dropper of Coke.
4) When cranking the radio, he would often ask if the song playing was the "LV"? What the hell did that mean? It was short for 'long version'. A good example would be "Do You Feel Like We Do?" by Frampton, or "Green-eyed Lady" by Sugarloaf, which were well known for radio edit versions. I still use this phrase.
--20110106
-I feel like adding to the Fincher post today. I still can't believe that any of us really got away with it, or didn't get seriously messed up, but he used to take us (me, and some of the other milky suburban white kids) down into the inner city to get high and party it up. He always lived in the neighborhood of State Street, or over near Highland Ave, up to about Center Street. In the range of 10th to about 27th Street. It was always somewhere different. Dumpy rent-by-the-week one bedroom joints. Usually with his wife Helen, who ended up working at the Crest later on. I specifically remember a place on about 34th and State. I went over there after work to pickup a dime of some classic "downtown brown" (ie crappy, dried-out ghetto schwag). I recall hanging out with the Fincher and his old lady, puffing up some brown, and drinking Thunderbird wine (remember that stuff?) out of a washed out peanut butter jar. We had a blast. Helen played some soul music on one of those handheld AM/FM transistor radios. One of those soul stations on the AM dial that is probably long gone now.
-The Fincher was famous for mis-interpreting song names and lyrics, as well as highlighting particular lyrical passages to great humorous effect. As you can tell from earlier notes, he a was a radio rat. I think this one of the many reasons we got along so well, since I'm always interested about what music is playing. The house radio at work was usually dialed into WKLH, classic rock. In the early 90's, KLH still had some balls.....not a lot, but more than it does now. Obviously, this is pre-internet, pre-mP3, pre-streaming, etc. We had two boom boxes in the kitchen. One in the dishroom, and one in the main kitchen (back by the salad department). They both played tapes, but it was really buyer beware on putting a cassette of any value in the dirty and gummed up machines.
-Some radio highlights/moments:
-"Evil Woman" by ELO. The Fincher always thought they were saying "Vehicle Woman", as "Vee-hicle Woman".
-"Oh, Girl" by The Chi-Lites (one of my favorite old soul tunes, by the way), was not a favorite of The Fincher's. When it would come on, he would give me a look of severe dis-satisfaction and say, "Ohhhh, not Old Girl!".
-Some play air guitar, but The Fincher played air bass. When a particularly pleasing bass line came on, he would hold his left hand motionless up above his head and shoulder, and slap his whole right hand, dangling off to his side, at about hip level. In other words, a wildly inaccurate portrayal of bass playing. Somebody commented, "Jim, what kind of bass is that? It looks like you are playing a single telephone cable strapped to a 2 x 4". One song that was guaranteed to get some air bass, was "Steppin' Out" by Joe Jackson. After the instrumental break in the middle, when the synth-bass comes back in playing that octave line, he would launch.
-As previously mentioned, Boston was king. Anything off of that first album was gold for him. It must have been something about all those processed guitars, or the faux heavy metal shrieking voice of Brad Delp, but the opening acoustic strums of "Peace of Mind", followed by the electric, and full band lead in, would send The Fincher into absolute overdrive. We would crank that shit when we were busting down at the end of the night....pounding beers, taking turns going "out behind the garage"....and we felt like complete kings. Like I said in an earlier post, I am proud to say that these were some of the (in the total sense of existence) best moments of my life. I had a total grab on the world as I knew it. My perception of the world was just the right size at this time, and I felt I really had a grasp on it. My work was tangible and real. It was clear when the day was done, and you knew immediately if you did a good job, and the people I was doing it with were on the same page.
The Menu
The menu at the Hillcrest was classic Supper Club. I don't believe it changed, literally, during my entire tenure. This is hilarious, and comforting, for me to think about now. I've since worked at higher end restaurants where the menu changes daily.
-On the last day, I made sure to take a menu home. I recall stamping the date on it, and saving it. I can only hope it is "somewhere". I have looked on several occasions to no avail. God, I hope it made it.
-Before I get into specifics, allow me relish in the modus operandi of food preparation at the Hillcrest. I hate the term 'old school'. It is really fucking stupid. I hear people moronically refer to things in the mid 90's as 'old school', which is both laughable, and painful. But, it is all relative. The approach towards food prep was the old way of doing things. Farmhouse cooking. Honest to God, and I'm racking my brain here, everything was from scratch, except for the dinner rolls. All sauces. 5 salad dressings (they made their own french dressing for some unknown reason; I'm sure the Sysco stuff was far cheaper). They made their own Thousand Island, Creamy Peppercorn, Italian dressing. They made their own hot Corned Beef dressing for Spinach salads.
-A personal fav (in retrospect), that was one of the worst tasks as a dishwasher, was what was known as "Tallow". Since all the meats were carved down from larger cuts, they saved all the beef fat trimmings. These were stored in extra deep cast iron hotel pans, which were heavier than hell. The job of "Tallow" was melting all this down, letting it cool, and then straining it. The resulting rendered liquid beef fat was used for the deep fryer. Now, this stuff didn't last nearly as long as synthetic fryer oil, but you can imagine how good the cottage fries tasted that were deep fried in the first batch of tallow grease. Un-fucking believable.
-Note: The "strain", which was all the meat and bone bits from the rendered tallow, after given a good shake of salt, was one of Elroy's favorites. I'll admit to eating it as well. Good times.
-Another item that seems crazy in retrospect. The menu offered a full Turkey dinner, Thanksgiving style, all year. They roasted whole birds all year. All the trimmings. Light meat and dark meat, real gravy made from the drippings (my brother still uses this basic recipe for gravy every Thanksgiving), cranberry sauce, etc. I seem to recall some scandal with mashed potatoes. I want to say a "batch" of real mashed was made every day, but once that ran out, they pulled out the 'whips', which were boxed. Honestly, with that gravy, I don't think anyone noticed, or cared.
-Other dinner delights. Roast Leg of Lamb (yup, the real thing), Prime Rib (roasted in house, offered on certain days). Something called Swiss Steak. This, and some other items, is where I have to laugh. There were a few items that were serious fucking food cost savers. Some of these are still hilarious stories amongst my bro and I. You have to keep in mind that the average age of the Hillcrest diner was somewhere between 67 and the age of dirt. Not your most discriminating palate. Basically, if it was hot, and it stayed down, the meal could be considered a success. From memory, Swiss steak was some hybrid of minute steaks, and pot roast. I remember the 8 or 9 inch deep square hotel pans, filled with some bootleg beef jus, carrot coins, and these overcooked, pounded out, squares of meat. They looked like what we always called minute steaks. I seem to remember trying to eat one once, and quickly giving up (and I ate anything in those days). It was a common sight, out on the floor, to see some old bag just carving away at one of these doorstops, and getting no where. Yet, the plate was always empty when I went to clear the table.
-The all time leading joker of the menu, had to be the "Sirloin Steak". It was not only false advertising, it was a mind boggling concept. Well, I can't prove the false advertising. The menu description may have had the word "formed" in it. The Sirloin Steak was a giant hamburger patty, shaped kind of like a steak. It was shaped like a fat banana, that did not have the curve of a banana. What was it actually? It was ground Sirloin formed into a submarine like shape, and cooked to ordered temp. In one of my many roles at the Crest, I was actually the head cook one night, through a series of chance absences and call-ins involving jail, drugs, and domestic squabbles. One of the few things I remember that night, was cooking a Sirloin, well done. I was appalled that someone was going to eat this brick in the first place, but they sent it back! And then, they sent it back again! I believe this was the first time I heard one of my favorite waiter phrases, to be used when bringing a piece of meat back to the kitchen for more "fire". I used this line many times in the future.
"Hey, she said it still isn't done enough. Why don't you take it out to the parking lot, and back over it a few times with your car."
-One item that piques my curiosity, more than anything, was "The Whitehouse". This was a lunch only item. I'm sure I could find some historical context for this item, but I doubt it was like this one. This was also the first and last time I ever heard the phrase "toast points", which is still a bit weird for me. It started with an individual oblong shaped casserole dish. A single slice of white toast was cut on the diagonal, and placed in the bottom of the casserole dish to form a parallelogram (it fit perfectly). The next step was to ladle in a couple cups of cream soup (soup du jour, along with a broth soup). Then it was topped with a couple slices of American cheese, and sent into the salamander oven for baking. The end result, at least preparation wise, was similar to French Onion soup. The garnish was toast points, which I enjoyed for the geometry (I love math and was probably very high at the time, so making toast points was done with artistic precision). The other slice of toast that was prepared at the beginning of the order was cut the same way as the base, but then cut into smaller triangles, two more times. This gave you a total of 8 toast points, which were framed around the edge of the bubbling, oozy mixture of American cheese and cream soup. I remember an especially satisfied geezer being very complimentary of his Whitehouse when the cream soup of the day was Reuben soup. Actually, that sounds pretty damned good.
-For completion's sake, there was a half roasted chicken dinner, baby calf liver dinner (with bacon and/or onions), and other non-descript supper club classics.
-Prices. This is really amazing, when I think about it. All dinners included soup, salad, entree, choice of potato, and dessert. This is the only time I have ever seen dessert included. The desserts were homemade, too. I specifically remember the turkey dinner on the last day of the restaurant in 1994, was $8.95. I think the Prime Rib dinner topped the menu at $12.95. Ridiculously low prices by 1994 standards.
-The desserts were always a selection of a homemade pie, ice cream or sherbet, or the famous Butterscotch tart. For the pies, I seem to remember a Banana Cream, Coconut Cream, and a German Custard. All homemade pastry crusts, too. They were okay. Nothing special. The Butterscotch Tart was an entirely different story. All the old bags went apeshit for this concoction. It started with an individual pastry shell "cup". Dick baked these in the morning using these old cast iron muffin-like baking trays. The trays had semi-circular dips about the size of a fist, instead of the standard muffin shape. The shells were baked and cooled. The genius of these was the assembly. Everything else was ala minute. It was real simple: grab a plate, grab a shell, dip the bottom in the homemade butterscotch pudding (to act as glue on the plate), place the delicate shell on the plate, fill it with a scoop of Butterscotch, and give it a dollop of fresh whipped cream. Done. I probably turned out several hundreds of these during my tenure.
-On the last day, I made sure to take a menu home. I recall stamping the date on it, and saving it. I can only hope it is "somewhere". I have looked on several occasions to no avail. God, I hope it made it.
-Before I get into specifics, allow me relish in the modus operandi of food preparation at the Hillcrest. I hate the term 'old school'. It is really fucking stupid. I hear people moronically refer to things in the mid 90's as 'old school', which is both laughable, and painful. But, it is all relative. The approach towards food prep was the old way of doing things. Farmhouse cooking. Honest to God, and I'm racking my brain here, everything was from scratch, except for the dinner rolls. All sauces. 5 salad dressings (they made their own french dressing for some unknown reason; I'm sure the Sysco stuff was far cheaper). They made their own Thousand Island, Creamy Peppercorn, Italian dressing. They made their own hot Corned Beef dressing for Spinach salads.
-A personal fav (in retrospect), that was one of the worst tasks as a dishwasher, was what was known as "Tallow". Since all the meats were carved down from larger cuts, they saved all the beef fat trimmings. These were stored in extra deep cast iron hotel pans, which were heavier than hell. The job of "Tallow" was melting all this down, letting it cool, and then straining it. The resulting rendered liquid beef fat was used for the deep fryer. Now, this stuff didn't last nearly as long as synthetic fryer oil, but you can imagine how good the cottage fries tasted that were deep fried in the first batch of tallow grease. Un-fucking believable.
-Note: The "strain", which was all the meat and bone bits from the rendered tallow, after given a good shake of salt, was one of Elroy's favorites. I'll admit to eating it as well. Good times.
-Another item that seems crazy in retrospect. The menu offered a full Turkey dinner, Thanksgiving style, all year. They roasted whole birds all year. All the trimmings. Light meat and dark meat, real gravy made from the drippings (my brother still uses this basic recipe for gravy every Thanksgiving), cranberry sauce, etc. I seem to recall some scandal with mashed potatoes. I want to say a "batch" of real mashed was made every day, but once that ran out, they pulled out the 'whips', which were boxed. Honestly, with that gravy, I don't think anyone noticed, or cared.
-Other dinner delights. Roast Leg of Lamb (yup, the real thing), Prime Rib (roasted in house, offered on certain days). Something called Swiss Steak. This, and some other items, is where I have to laugh. There were a few items that were serious fucking food cost savers. Some of these are still hilarious stories amongst my bro and I. You have to keep in mind that the average age of the Hillcrest diner was somewhere between 67 and the age of dirt. Not your most discriminating palate. Basically, if it was hot, and it stayed down, the meal could be considered a success. From memory, Swiss steak was some hybrid of minute steaks, and pot roast. I remember the 8 or 9 inch deep square hotel pans, filled with some bootleg beef jus, carrot coins, and these overcooked, pounded out, squares of meat. They looked like what we always called minute steaks. I seem to remember trying to eat one once, and quickly giving up (and I ate anything in those days). It was a common sight, out on the floor, to see some old bag just carving away at one of these doorstops, and getting no where. Yet, the plate was always empty when I went to clear the table.
-The all time leading joker of the menu, had to be the "Sirloin Steak". It was not only false advertising, it was a mind boggling concept. Well, I can't prove the false advertising. The menu description may have had the word "formed" in it. The Sirloin Steak was a giant hamburger patty, shaped kind of like a steak. It was shaped like a fat banana, that did not have the curve of a banana. What was it actually? It was ground Sirloin formed into a submarine like shape, and cooked to ordered temp. In one of my many roles at the Crest, I was actually the head cook one night, through a series of chance absences and call-ins involving jail, drugs, and domestic squabbles. One of the few things I remember that night, was cooking a Sirloin, well done. I was appalled that someone was going to eat this brick in the first place, but they sent it back! And then, they sent it back again! I believe this was the first time I heard one of my favorite waiter phrases, to be used when bringing a piece of meat back to the kitchen for more "fire". I used this line many times in the future.
"Hey, she said it still isn't done enough. Why don't you take it out to the parking lot, and back over it a few times with your car."
-One item that piques my curiosity, more than anything, was "The Whitehouse". This was a lunch only item. I'm sure I could find some historical context for this item, but I doubt it was like this one. This was also the first and last time I ever heard the phrase "toast points", which is still a bit weird for me. It started with an individual oblong shaped casserole dish. A single slice of white toast was cut on the diagonal, and placed in the bottom of the casserole dish to form a parallelogram (it fit perfectly). The next step was to ladle in a couple cups of cream soup (soup du jour, along with a broth soup). Then it was topped with a couple slices of American cheese, and sent into the salamander oven for baking. The end result, at least preparation wise, was similar to French Onion soup. The garnish was toast points, which I enjoyed for the geometry (I love math and was probably very high at the time, so making toast points was done with artistic precision). The other slice of toast that was prepared at the beginning of the order was cut the same way as the base, but then cut into smaller triangles, two more times. This gave you a total of 8 toast points, which were framed around the edge of the bubbling, oozy mixture of American cheese and cream soup. I remember an especially satisfied geezer being very complimentary of his Whitehouse when the cream soup of the day was Reuben soup. Actually, that sounds pretty damned good.
-For completion's sake, there was a half roasted chicken dinner, baby calf liver dinner (with bacon and/or onions), and other non-descript supper club classics.
-Prices. This is really amazing, when I think about it. All dinners included soup, salad, entree, choice of potato, and dessert. This is the only time I have ever seen dessert included. The desserts were homemade, too. I specifically remember the turkey dinner on the last day of the restaurant in 1994, was $8.95. I think the Prime Rib dinner topped the menu at $12.95. Ridiculously low prices by 1994 standards.
-The desserts were always a selection of a homemade pie, ice cream or sherbet, or the famous Butterscotch tart. For the pies, I seem to remember a Banana Cream, Coconut Cream, and a German Custard. All homemade pastry crusts, too. They were okay. Nothing special. The Butterscotch Tart was an entirely different story. All the old bags went apeshit for this concoction. It started with an individual pastry shell "cup". Dick baked these in the morning using these old cast iron muffin-like baking trays. The trays had semi-circular dips about the size of a fist, instead of the standard muffin shape. The shells were baked and cooled. The genius of these was the assembly. Everything else was ala minute. It was real simple: grab a plate, grab a shell, dip the bottom in the homemade butterscotch pudding (to act as glue on the plate), place the delicate shell on the plate, fill it with a scoop of Butterscotch, and give it a dollop of fresh whipped cream. Done. I probably turned out several hundreds of these during my tenure.
Vodka Gimlet
-Well, I have to say, this is day 2 of the blog, and it has got the memories flowing. I've been compared to an elephant, and a steel trap, when it comes to memory, so I am feeling a bit proud. In keeping with this stream of consciousness, I'm going to go with the first Hillcrest memory that popped into my head this morning. Caveat: We are way out of order, in chronology. This relates to a regular customer couple that dined at the Hillcrest. For a bit of context, I eventually worked my way out of the kitchen, onto the floor, where my illustrious 14 year career as a server began. I am proud to say it started here, in roughly 1990, slinging hot plates of turkey dinners, Swiss steak, and leg of lamb to the elderly, enfeebled, and just plain cheap hungry slobs.
-Vodka Gimlet. To you and me, this is a cocktail. Typically, a shot and a half of vodka over the rocks, topped off with a decent splash of that bar staple, Rose's Lime Juice. Possibly garnished with a wedge of lime. Well, at the Hillcrest, the phrase Vodka Gimlet meant a person, actually a couple, had arrived. It even got shortened to "Vodka Gim".
-For instance, during a shift, Dick, or Lou, would come back into the dishroom, where I would be smoking cigs and hanging out, and simply say, "Hey, Vodka Gim". That simple phrase meant several things, and set several other things in motion.
1. A couple was at "their" table. For the life of me, I can't remember table numbers, but they were always on a four-top on the smoking side, right in the middle, next to the bus stand on the West side of the building.
2. The man was a late 40's, heavy set, George Wendt-ish type fellow. His wife was roughly the same age. She chain smoked cigarettes like nobody's business, and sipped a single cocktail or glass of wine throughout dinner. I never learned their names, honestly...it was always "Vodka Gimlet" and "Vodka Gimlet's wife". I'm sure restaurant folk can relate to this from their own experience. Obviously, it takes a somewhat unique drink, or habit, to coin a nickname. Nobody ever came up to me and said, "Beer is sitting at his table".
3. Shortly after the word was sent to me that Vodka Gim had arrived, I'm sure someone alerted the bar to get cracking. This guy wanted his drink at the table when he sat down. 2 shots of Vodka, a (full) shot of Rose's, no lime, two olives.
-That first one was down before his coat was hung up. Number two and three quickly followed, and then it was time to order. I would say when number 4 was served, they had been in the building about 25 minutes. This guy was a pro.
-If memory serves, they were roughly on a twice a week schedule. They were really nice people, and I usually took care of them. I seem to recall an automatic 7 dollar tip from them. This was above average, considering the ease of workload as a table, and the prices (more on the prices later).
-I sincerely hope they both changed their ways at some point. I can't help but think that 15 years later there is a good chance they would both be in bad shape if they didn't.
-Vodka Gimlet. To you and me, this is a cocktail. Typically, a shot and a half of vodka over the rocks, topped off with a decent splash of that bar staple, Rose's Lime Juice. Possibly garnished with a wedge of lime. Well, at the Hillcrest, the phrase Vodka Gimlet meant a person, actually a couple, had arrived. It even got shortened to "Vodka Gim".
-For instance, during a shift, Dick, or Lou, would come back into the dishroom, where I would be smoking cigs and hanging out, and simply say, "Hey, Vodka Gim". That simple phrase meant several things, and set several other things in motion.
1. A couple was at "their" table. For the life of me, I can't remember table numbers, but they were always on a four-top on the smoking side, right in the middle, next to the bus stand on the West side of the building.
2. The man was a late 40's, heavy set, George Wendt-ish type fellow. His wife was roughly the same age. She chain smoked cigarettes like nobody's business, and sipped a single cocktail or glass of wine throughout dinner. I never learned their names, honestly...it was always "Vodka Gimlet" and "Vodka Gimlet's wife". I'm sure restaurant folk can relate to this from their own experience. Obviously, it takes a somewhat unique drink, or habit, to coin a nickname. Nobody ever came up to me and said, "Beer is sitting at his table".
3. Shortly after the word was sent to me that Vodka Gim had arrived, I'm sure someone alerted the bar to get cracking. This guy wanted his drink at the table when he sat down. 2 shots of Vodka, a (full) shot of Rose's, no lime, two olives.
-That first one was down before his coat was hung up. Number two and three quickly followed, and then it was time to order. I would say when number 4 was served, they had been in the building about 25 minutes. This guy was a pro.
-If memory serves, they were roughly on a twice a week schedule. They were really nice people, and I usually took care of them. I seem to recall an automatic 7 dollar tip from them. This was above average, considering the ease of workload as a table, and the prices (more on the prices later).
-I sincerely hope they both changed their ways at some point. I can't help but think that 15 years later there is a good chance they would both be in bad shape if they didn't.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Elroy Stiglitz
-A big reason for this thing even being fucking created, is Elroy Stiglitz. Again, I hope I am right with the last name spelling. Elroy is one of my favorite people of all time. For some people who know me, they would be confused by my adoration of him, if they were somehow able to meet him. This will easily be the longest post on this blog. And as long as I can continue to remember things about Elroy, I will append them here.
-Elroy was an "old dishwasher", literally. He was an old, smelly, disgusting guy that washed the pots and the pans at the Hillcrest. He had severe epilepsy, and endured (literally) daily grand mal seizures. He passed away around 1992, and very little was known about him. Obviously, even less is known now. To call him a character is a disservice to the word character. Elroy was.....well, Elroy. In retrospect, I wish I would have written down everything the guy said, or tape recorded it, or even....just taken one fucking picture. My brother, who worked a stint at the restaurant, may have a cassette with some 'Roy' on it. We used to crank tapes in the kitchen all the time, and we both (hazily) recall recording Elroy. I believe my brother still has a box of cassettes that he vowed he would not throw away until he made sure the 'Roy' tape wasn't in there.
-Roy worked during the day. If memory serves, the Hillcrest was open everyday, with varying hours. Roy lived on 13th and Lapham, on the south side. That's all we ever knew, 13th and Lapham. His landlord, or caretaker (I never fully understood the relationship), was a guy named Gene. Roy would bitch about Gene all the time. Gene had three dogs, which Roy didn't care for. Roy took two Milwaukee city buses to get to the Hillcrest. I can recall several times where I would see an MCTS bus rolling up Watertown Plank in a total whiteout blizzard. It would stop across the street, and one person would hobble off, in an over-sized plaid winter coat (think Elmer Fudd), carrying an old timey luggage bag, and sporting a matching plaid muff hat, complete with huge furry ear flaps. Classic Elroy. Going to work.
-Dick, the owner, in retrospect, had a huge heart for Elroy. As I get older, I can really understand why. He always made sure Roy was fed, and on occassion, would give him a ride home, or to a social service office.
-So, what was so charming about this rotten old coot? Why do I still routinely think of him 20 years later, when I have completely forgotten about people I met last week? Well, I will do my best to explain, but it won't be easy.
-I started as a dishwasher. This meant I was running the actual dishwasher. Nothing tricky. Servers and busboys bring back the dirty dishes, and dump them on the dishtable. They sort out the silverware, and chuck that in a separate bin, but that is about it. It was my job to scrape em off, rack em up, send them through. And then, obviously, unrack, stack, and take the clean dishes back to their appropriate station. For about a six month window in 1989, I thought this was the greatest job in the world. Honest to god, I was higher than a kite, cranking classic rock, and busting some serious suds. They pay me for this? Wow. I didn't know it at the time, but this was probably the only time in my life where I can truly say "I didn't have a care in the world". I'm sure a lot of people can relate to this in retrospect, looking over some early job they had...
-On the other side of this dish room, was the pots and pans sink. Roy's station. The entire room was 12 x 20, maybe. Pretty close quarters and poorly vented. Hotter than hell in summer.
-Roy basically put four things in his body. Cigarette smoke, coffee, and cheese sandwiches. The fourth, literally, was anything else he could find. The taboo practice of 'Eating off the plates' was fine dining for Roy. I saw Roy eat things off the floor. I saw Roy eat things out of the garbage can. Roy would drain one of the pot sinks, and eat what was ever in the drain catch after the water drained out.
-He smoked Pall Mall straights. Probably three packs a day. But, just like his eating, we wasn't discerning about his brand, or even the origin of the cigarette. He would smoke cigs off the ground, or out of ashtrays from the cleared tables.
-He drank, what had to be, gallons of coffee. It had to be black, but didn't have to be hot, or fresh.....or even from that day. I witnessed him coming in one day. He walked in and picked up his coffee cup, which was sitting right next to his tin ashtray (which I took on the last day of the restaurant, and I still have in my possession. I absolutely cherish it, and consider it to be one of my most valuable items). Instead of walking over to the sink and dumping out the two-day old coffee in the cup, it was simply bottoms up.
-His daily meal while working was simple. Two cheese sandwiches, and a huge pile of whips with gravy. The cheese sandwiches were simply two pieces of untoasted white bread, with two slices of American cheese. That's it. I remember one time when we were out of cheese. I had to break the news to Roy:
"Hey Roy, we are out of cheese slices. What else do you want?"
"Just put some other cheese on there" (I won't even try and type his annunciation)
"We're out, Roy"
"You don't have any cheese?"
"Well, we have crumbled blue cheese, but.."
"Oh that's fine. I like the blue cheese"
And so, we made him two crumbled blue cheese sandwiches. I walked in a few minutes later while he was eating and asked them how they were (while trying not to bust a gut). He replied, and in the process, spit a few meteors of blue cheese at me.
-Roy's hygiene was horrendous. This was partially due to his means, but also his standards. He wore cheap, rough jeans, a tucked in long sleeve worker's shirt, belt, and boots. It was a noticeable event when he got new jeans. I think his jeans were washed about weekly. It sounds so clinical when I say it now, but Roy had serious bowel issues. He shit his pants basically everyday, and had ridiculous gas that would clear the whole kitchen. It wasn't uncommon to see crap fall out of the bottom cuff of his pants, or even step and slide in some of his shit on the dish room floor. Obviously, now I would be much more sensitive to encounter this type of situation, but at the time as an immature and fried teenager, I handled it quite differently. Still, I remember feeling bad for the old guy, and ultimately helping him out anyway I could.
-Another thing that really made an impression, and scared the shit out of me, was the seizures. I didn't have any experience with seizures prior to working there, so this was new to me. Also, I had no way to gauge that his were so bad.
-Dick gave me the unofficial 'Roy Seizure' training. I was warned. You need to have three things on hand: a rag, a hot cup of coffee, and a lit cigarette. Put the rag in his mouth, and as soon as he comes to, show him the cup of coffee, and hand him the lit Pall Mall.
-Well, nothing could have prepared me for the first time. I was manning the dishwasher, when I was startled by a huge BA-BOOM! I turned around, to see Elroy flat on his back, quivering. The guy's dead weight sounded like one of the convection ovens falling over. I sheepishly approached. His coke-bottle glasses had flown off, which made him facially barely recognizable. Luckily, Dick came running to start the drill, so I just played gopher. I ran and got a hot cup of coffee (in his cup, "The Big Cheese"), and fired up a Pall Mall for the old guy. I'll never forget the blank stare of someones eyes coming into focus as they come out of a seizure. He eventually lumbered up and sat in his chair for a minute or two, powered down a couple of squares, and went back to work. This would happen many more times in the future. A couple of times I even caught him on the way down.
-Who wouldn't be charmed by all of this? I know, but to me, this is all part of the package. Well, here is a stunner. Roy played guitar. To look at his hands, you wouldn't think the guy could play a railing. Huge meaty paws, and total sausage fingers. Dick was the first one to tell me about this. At the time, I was a drummer, but was already well into my lifelong fascination/addiction with the world of music. He even brought his guitar in one day and played a few tunes, but I missed the "performance", and he wouldn't bust it out for me. Apparently, he played "I'm an old Cowhand, from the Rio Grande", and "The Wabash Cannonball". I asked Roy where he learned those songs, and he told me "Ahh, those are songs from the trains". The guy had ridden the rails back in the 40's, as what I can only call the closest thing I know to a hobo lifestyle. Also, his guitar was an excellent Martin acoustic. Yup, the guy who eats garbage has a Martin guitar.
-Elroy was an "old dishwasher", literally. He was an old, smelly, disgusting guy that washed the pots and the pans at the Hillcrest. He had severe epilepsy, and endured (literally) daily grand mal seizures. He passed away around 1992, and very little was known about him. Obviously, even less is known now. To call him a character is a disservice to the word character. Elroy was.....well, Elroy. In retrospect, I wish I would have written down everything the guy said, or tape recorded it, or even....just taken one fucking picture. My brother, who worked a stint at the restaurant, may have a cassette with some 'Roy' on it. We used to crank tapes in the kitchen all the time, and we both (hazily) recall recording Elroy. I believe my brother still has a box of cassettes that he vowed he would not throw away until he made sure the 'Roy' tape wasn't in there.
-Roy worked during the day. If memory serves, the Hillcrest was open everyday, with varying hours. Roy lived on 13th and Lapham, on the south side. That's all we ever knew, 13th and Lapham. His landlord, or caretaker (I never fully understood the relationship), was a guy named Gene. Roy would bitch about Gene all the time. Gene had three dogs, which Roy didn't care for. Roy took two Milwaukee city buses to get to the Hillcrest. I can recall several times where I would see an MCTS bus rolling up Watertown Plank in a total whiteout blizzard. It would stop across the street, and one person would hobble off, in an over-sized plaid winter coat (think Elmer Fudd), carrying an old timey luggage bag, and sporting a matching plaid muff hat, complete with huge furry ear flaps. Classic Elroy. Going to work.
-Dick, the owner, in retrospect, had a huge heart for Elroy. As I get older, I can really understand why. He always made sure Roy was fed, and on occassion, would give him a ride home, or to a social service office.
-So, what was so charming about this rotten old coot? Why do I still routinely think of him 20 years later, when I have completely forgotten about people I met last week? Well, I will do my best to explain, but it won't be easy.
-I started as a dishwasher. This meant I was running the actual dishwasher. Nothing tricky. Servers and busboys bring back the dirty dishes, and dump them on the dishtable. They sort out the silverware, and chuck that in a separate bin, but that is about it. It was my job to scrape em off, rack em up, send them through. And then, obviously, unrack, stack, and take the clean dishes back to their appropriate station. For about a six month window in 1989, I thought this was the greatest job in the world. Honest to god, I was higher than a kite, cranking classic rock, and busting some serious suds. They pay me for this? Wow. I didn't know it at the time, but this was probably the only time in my life where I can truly say "I didn't have a care in the world". I'm sure a lot of people can relate to this in retrospect, looking over some early job they had...
-On the other side of this dish room, was the pots and pans sink. Roy's station. The entire room was 12 x 20, maybe. Pretty close quarters and poorly vented. Hotter than hell in summer.
-Roy basically put four things in his body. Cigarette smoke, coffee, and cheese sandwiches. The fourth, literally, was anything else he could find. The taboo practice of 'Eating off the plates' was fine dining for Roy. I saw Roy eat things off the floor. I saw Roy eat things out of the garbage can. Roy would drain one of the pot sinks, and eat what was ever in the drain catch after the water drained out.
-He smoked Pall Mall straights. Probably three packs a day. But, just like his eating, we wasn't discerning about his brand, or even the origin of the cigarette. He would smoke cigs off the ground, or out of ashtrays from the cleared tables.
-He drank, what had to be, gallons of coffee. It had to be black, but didn't have to be hot, or fresh.....or even from that day. I witnessed him coming in one day. He walked in and picked up his coffee cup, which was sitting right next to his tin ashtray (which I took on the last day of the restaurant, and I still have in my possession. I absolutely cherish it, and consider it to be one of my most valuable items). Instead of walking over to the sink and dumping out the two-day old coffee in the cup, it was simply bottoms up.
-His daily meal while working was simple. Two cheese sandwiches, and a huge pile of whips with gravy. The cheese sandwiches were simply two pieces of untoasted white bread, with two slices of American cheese. That's it. I remember one time when we were out of cheese. I had to break the news to Roy:
"Hey Roy, we are out of cheese slices. What else do you want?"
"Just put some other cheese on there" (I won't even try and type his annunciation)
"We're out, Roy"
"You don't have any cheese?"
"Well, we have crumbled blue cheese, but.."
"Oh that's fine. I like the blue cheese"
And so, we made him two crumbled blue cheese sandwiches. I walked in a few minutes later while he was eating and asked them how they were (while trying not to bust a gut). He replied, and in the process, spit a few meteors of blue cheese at me.
-Roy's hygiene was horrendous. This was partially due to his means, but also his standards. He wore cheap, rough jeans, a tucked in long sleeve worker's shirt, belt, and boots. It was a noticeable event when he got new jeans. I think his jeans were washed about weekly. It sounds so clinical when I say it now, but Roy had serious bowel issues. He shit his pants basically everyday, and had ridiculous gas that would clear the whole kitchen. It wasn't uncommon to see crap fall out of the bottom cuff of his pants, or even step and slide in some of his shit on the dish room floor. Obviously, now I would be much more sensitive to encounter this type of situation, but at the time as an immature and fried teenager, I handled it quite differently. Still, I remember feeling bad for the old guy, and ultimately helping him out anyway I could.
-Another thing that really made an impression, and scared the shit out of me, was the seizures. I didn't have any experience with seizures prior to working there, so this was new to me. Also, I had no way to gauge that his were so bad.
-Dick gave me the unofficial 'Roy Seizure' training. I was warned. You need to have three things on hand: a rag, a hot cup of coffee, and a lit cigarette. Put the rag in his mouth, and as soon as he comes to, show him the cup of coffee, and hand him the lit Pall Mall.
-Well, nothing could have prepared me for the first time. I was manning the dishwasher, when I was startled by a huge BA-BOOM! I turned around, to see Elroy flat on his back, quivering. The guy's dead weight sounded like one of the convection ovens falling over. I sheepishly approached. His coke-bottle glasses had flown off, which made him facially barely recognizable. Luckily, Dick came running to start the drill, so I just played gopher. I ran and got a hot cup of coffee (in his cup, "The Big Cheese"), and fired up a Pall Mall for the old guy. I'll never forget the blank stare of someones eyes coming into focus as they come out of a seizure. He eventually lumbered up and sat in his chair for a minute or two, powered down a couple of squares, and went back to work. This would happen many more times in the future. A couple of times I even caught him on the way down.
-Who wouldn't be charmed by all of this? I know, but to me, this is all part of the package. Well, here is a stunner. Roy played guitar. To look at his hands, you wouldn't think the guy could play a railing. Huge meaty paws, and total sausage fingers. Dick was the first one to tell me about this. At the time, I was a drummer, but was already well into my lifelong fascination/addiction with the world of music. He even brought his guitar in one day and played a few tunes, but I missed the "performance", and he wouldn't bust it out for me. Apparently, he played "I'm an old Cowhand, from the Rio Grande", and "The Wabash Cannonball". I asked Roy where he learned those songs, and he told me "Ahh, those are songs from the trains". The guy had ridden the rails back in the 40's, as what I can only call the closest thing I know to a hobo lifestyle. Also, his guitar was an excellent Martin acoustic. Yup, the guy who eats garbage has a Martin guitar.
The Details (big stuff)
-The Hillcrest Dining Room was located at 8612 West Watertown Plank Road, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, 53213. The current site is still a restaurant, Eddie Martini's, owned by the DeRosa Group (owners of Chancery, and some other local eateries). They purchased the lot and building in early 1995, I believe, and more or less kept the same structure, which was a 19th century farmhouse (more on that later).
-As far as the humble beginnings of the Hillcrest name, I have no idea. I'm hoping this blog enables some research in that direction. I can tell you that the last day was February 20, 1994, and I worked that day. I can also tell you that I started in August of 1988 at the age of fourteen, and worked at that restaurant, in one capacity or another, until the last day.
-The ownership for my entire tenure was the Klein family. That spelling is correct, to the best of my knowledge. The parents were Adam ("AK"), and his wife Lou, which I always assumed was short for Louise, but I can't say for sure. (From memory), they had three children: Margie, Richard, and Toni (Antoinette, I believe). Margie had nothing to do with place as far as I know. Richard ("Dick") was the owner/operator when I started, and stayed on to run the kitchen during the last years when Adam and Lou stepped back in to run the place. In retrospect, this was some type of bailout, or a prep to sell the place. I was really too young to know for sure, but the idea seems to be that Dick had run into some serious financial trouble in the late 80's and needed help. There was an ex-wife involved, and a downtown restaurant that didn't work out, etc. The younger sister Toni, actually came back to help out and work for the final couple of years. I believe her married name was Timm. She had two daughters and a son. The two daughters, Amanda and Melissa(?), both worked busing tables at the restaurant.
-Now that I think about it (typing this stuff really brings back the memory!), Margie's son Pete, aka "Pistol Pete", was a busboy too. I remember a time, which had to be very embarrassing for the bashful, teenage Pete, when some old bag just destroyed the ladies room at the restaurant. Dick wanted to have Pete put a parrot on his head, and head in to assess the damage. The whole staff just erupted into laughter at this one, while Pete stood there red-faced, not realizing that we weren't laughing at him, but at Dick's hilarious crack.
--20110110
Some comments from our first poster! And they definitely deserve to be included in the details (which will hopefully become more of a timeline/chronology post down the road). This fine anonymous person first posted about their father working at the Hillcrest. I replied (and begged) for more details....and lo and behold! As I mentioned in my reply to the post below, this is very encouraging. Nice to see the internet facilitate a connection that would have otherwise probably never even come close...
Anonymous said...
My father (Casey) worked the Hillcrest as a part-time job (he worked full time at Louis Allis). This was in the 1960's and 1970's when I was a little kid, and left in (I think) 1972 to run our own family tavern in South Milwaukee.
I recall the Christies owning the Hillcrest at that time. Dad never took us to the Hillcrest back then, I'm sure it was too expensive, as he was the sole breadwinner and he commuted back and forth from Tosa to Caledonia (Racine) where we lived at that time.
When my dad died in 1996, (he was 79) I posted on his obit that he worked the Hillcrest, Mrs. Christie did respond with her condolences.
That's about all I know.
-As far as the humble beginnings of the Hillcrest name, I have no idea. I'm hoping this blog enables some research in that direction. I can tell you that the last day was February 20, 1994, and I worked that day. I can also tell you that I started in August of 1988 at the age of fourteen, and worked at that restaurant, in one capacity or another, until the last day.
-The ownership for my entire tenure was the Klein family. That spelling is correct, to the best of my knowledge. The parents were Adam ("AK"), and his wife Lou, which I always assumed was short for Louise, but I can't say for sure. (From memory), they had three children: Margie, Richard, and Toni (Antoinette, I believe). Margie had nothing to do with place as far as I know. Richard ("Dick") was the owner/operator when I started, and stayed on to run the kitchen during the last years when Adam and Lou stepped back in to run the place. In retrospect, this was some type of bailout, or a prep to sell the place. I was really too young to know for sure, but the idea seems to be that Dick had run into some serious financial trouble in the late 80's and needed help. There was an ex-wife involved, and a downtown restaurant that didn't work out, etc. The younger sister Toni, actually came back to help out and work for the final couple of years. I believe her married name was Timm. She had two daughters and a son. The two daughters, Amanda and Melissa(?), both worked busing tables at the restaurant.
-Now that I think about it (typing this stuff really brings back the memory!), Margie's son Pete, aka "Pistol Pete", was a busboy too. I remember a time, which had to be very embarrassing for the bashful, teenage Pete, when some old bag just destroyed the ladies room at the restaurant. Dick wanted to have Pete put a parrot on his head, and head in to assess the damage. The whole staff just erupted into laughter at this one, while Pete stood there red-faced, not realizing that we weren't laughing at him, but at Dick's hilarious crack.
--20110110
Some comments from our first poster! And they definitely deserve to be included in the details (which will hopefully become more of a timeline/chronology post down the road). This fine anonymous person first posted about their father working at the Hillcrest. I replied (and begged) for more details....and lo and behold! As I mentioned in my reply to the post below, this is very encouraging. Nice to see the internet facilitate a connection that would have otherwise probably never even come close...
Anonymous said...
I recall the Christies owning the Hillcrest at that time. Dad never took us to the Hillcrest back then, I'm sure it was too expensive, as he was the sole breadwinner and he commuted back and forth from Tosa to Caledonia (Racine) where we lived at that time.
When my dad died in 1996, (he was 79) I posted on his obit that he worked the Hillcrest, Mrs. Christie did respond with her condolences.
That's about all I know.
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