Wooden Room

WRITTEN by Araya Persons

167 Madison Ave.  

From the outside it only looked like a deli store or Italian front type restaurant. Quaint but concerned. I stood there in front of the place for a minute, really just looking at all the yellow and blueish sorts of colors that touched around the building. The windows had been shaded by white curtains. I was walking there to talk about the meal he had served Mr.Loui. There were lots of small town chefs and then there were the big budget rooms only filled with tables to play up your desire for anything they could cook you.​​ This was not one of those, but it was small and condensed.I began to grow more curious as to why Loui would go to a place like this. The unconventionality.

Loui had been a critic and a writer for the news and other magazines before he had found a love for cooking. He was a name throughout the loud sort of upbeat flowy parties with the most high class people. Mr. Loui had it good and everyone knew. Every businessman had tried a bite of the tasteful bouquets he would make. Holding a high place in the simplistic way of cooking, for his food was glowing and their well developed recipes became common knowledge to anyone in the food scene. I walked in.

I could say that I’m in this tight old wooden building where I heard from Birdie about this new up-and-coming someone from probably nowhere made Loui a meal. This place was filled with young and beautiful people, smiling, you know, as if all the nights would continue being just as loudly strong and unknowingly right as this one. The kids liked this place. I began to understand. The way the lights were placed and how the pictures were hung up. All nights were the same to the men feeding the plates; opening windows to the new people who would walk through the door every hour or so. The new couples, old friends, new friends. The people I was waiting behind, to be seated on a date. Maybe holding hands or just wanting to feel closer than usual. They were laughing as the waiter began to lead their wide faces away to a far corner in the restaurant. I stepped forward and the waiter asked how many and I just told him I was only there to talk to the head chef. The waiter glanced at the clock and then back to me. He then said I would need to order a meal and wait till they were out of the night's rushs. Then the head chef could have enough time to speak to me. 

I followed the waiter to a small table placed in the middle of the whole nightly event. I ordered a few appetizers and waited until it was around eight; not much time to kill, I thought to myself. I looked around. Writing about these types of places made the job easier. Everything began to mesh together, all restaurants were playing the same sort of game. The walls were covered in funny browned wallpaper. All the wood trim along the tall windows were painted a yellow color, more bright than you would expect. There were lots of small square tables; and wooden chairs to follow. Along the bar were tall red stools placed in front of a white brightly lit kitchen window behind the nightly drinks. Figures could be seen behind this window, frying the food and garnishing the dishes. Only seen as shadowed types, never fully. Waving exaggerated hands, rushing about yelling foggy kitchen words: this was their love. Steam began to fill up the kitchen, someone turned up the heat. I wondered if my food would come soon, as most people did. 

Servers were all dressed in a compelling dark blue type uniform. Coming around every corner carrying a surprisingly well arranged display of decorative cocktails and gleaming white plates of picked desires. Some dishes being served were small plates of assorted vegetables layered under grilled meat or fish. Other dishes were pastas covered in sauces with nuts or grilled spiced tomatoes set on top. There was a small menu of desserts only consisting of a few ice creams and cakes, cherries and whipped cream on top. Common sorts of food, this was their food, simple, fine, and nothing lavish or hidden away. There were a variety of colorful thick soups served in golden trim sea glass bowls as well. Warm fresh crisp bread came along with every meal. When my second appetizer arrived, which had been the night's special: a crunchy tossed strawberry salad with various cuts of lettuce, spinach and sprouts.  Then covered in dripping pine nut sauce and topped with smoked cheese bits. I was brought a menu of wines. I hadn’t drank in years but contemplated the realness that would come with a bloody shiny glass of wine in my hand, all I could want was this.

Most people sitting around their tables would simply wait and wait till their food had arrived to their hungry mouths in silence. A few would gladly talk wildly about pop-culture or American politics. These young people knew less and less, it always interested me though. How their spirits would only seem to rise. I began to see all the evenings people move about and settle in just to watch them become uncomfortable enough to leave. Again and again. Most left all at once, it grew empty in the restaurant.

A bus boy filled my glass and gave me a quiet smile, he turned to the window and turned off the neon open sign. Then the boy stepped out of the building and walked down the street. I lost track of where he went because he was almost running, fading away, smaller and smaller until nothing was all around him and I could no longer see his white button up shirt from blocks away. He’s left the restaurant. A few people walk out of the kitchen to leave for the night. Homes, apartments and things hidden all the way in the back of a closet or kitchen cabinet; needing to find it. They don’t know how long things last anymore. They leave here most nights as they do and go home. A few minutes after the doors were closed and everything became too quiet, someone approached me.