“True that,” said Johnny.
Johnny replaced the bottle, his shaggy hair brushing Alex’s face, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Alex closed the refrigerator door and joined Vicki, who was seated at the kitchen table, several take-out menus spread before her. They were going to order food, but Alex had put out some cheese, kalamata olives, and crackers for a predinner snack. Johnny joined them at the table.
A prime-time game show was playing on a small television set on the counter. The Pappases had a nice rec room with a big-screen TV, but mostly Alex and Vicki sat in the kitchen at night, watching the thirteen-inch. The kitchen had been the central room of the house since the boys were babies.
“How’d we do today?” said Johnny.
“I took in two, three million,” said Alex.
“That all?”
“We did fine.”
“Dad, I been thinking…”
“What I tell you about thinking?”
“I was thinking we’d add some specials to the menu. Change the offering a little bit.”
“Ah, here we go.”
“You can’t compete with the Paneras of the world. I mean, if you’re trying to go head-to-head with them in sandwiches, you’re going to lose.”
“It’s not that kinda place. I got a grill and a colds station. I don’t have a big kitchen.”
“You don’t need any more room or equipment. I can make gourmet soups on one gas burner. Maybe saute some soft-shells when they’re in season. For breakfast we can offer huevos rancheros, and sides like apple sausages. Slice up some fresh avocados as a garnish.”
“I get it. You might know how to prepare all the fancy stuff, but you’re not there all the time. Who’s gonna do it? And what if it doesn’t move?”
“Darlene would love to learn new sandwiches and recipes. Don’t you think she gets bored with the same-old, too?”
“She’s there to work, not to get excited.”
“If we try it and it doesn’t fly, then we go back to what we were doing. I’m not telling you to throw the old menu away. I’m saying, let’s do something different. Bring in a whole new kind of customer.”
Alex grunted and folded his arms.
Johnny had earned a bachelor’s degree in marketing and had recently graduated from a local culinary institute. For a while he had been an apprentice chef in a new-cuisine restaurant near George Washington University. Now he worked with his father at the coffee shop during the breakfast and lunch rushes, which was frequently an oil-and-water situation for both of them. Vicki, who thought her son needed the day-to-day experience of running a business, had suggested the trial arrangement.
“I saw a nice chalkboard with a hand-painted frame at a store today,” said Johnny. “I think we should buy it. I can put it up over the wall phone, write the day’s specials on it.”
“For God’s sake.”
“Let me try, Dad. One new soup, one new sandwich. Let’s just see if it goes.”
“ Avrio? ”
“Tomorrow, yeah.”
“Okay. But how about this for a change? You come to work on time.”
Johnny smiled.
“You dining with us tonight, honey?” said Vicki, her drugstore-bought reading glasses perched on her nose.
“Depends on what you guys are having,” said Johnny.
“ Ee-neh ah-paw-soy, ” said Alex, making a head movement toward Johnny. It meant that his son was to the manor born.
“I just don’t want any of that chain crap.”
“You think I do?” said Alex.
“How about El Rancho?” said Vicki.
“El Roacho,” said Johnny.
“I don’t want Mex,” said Alex. “My stomach…”
“Mie Wah?” said Vicki.
“Me Wallet,” said Alex.
“Don’t be so cheap, Dad.”
“It’s not that. I just don’t want Chinese.”
“Cancun Especial?”
“Can’t Cook Especial,” said Alex.
“He said he didn’t want Mexican,” offered Johnny.
“Well, we have to eat something,” said Vicki.
“Let’s just get a Ledo’s pizza,” said Alex, the decision they had been moving toward all along.
“I’ll cut a salad,” said Vicki. “Call it in, Alex, okay?”
“If Johnny picks it up.”
“I’m gone.”
They watched him go, a tall, thin, good-looking young man of twenty-five in tight jeans and a leather jacket that looked a size too small.
“What is that look he’s got?” said Alex. “Like, metrosexual, somethin?”
“Stop it.”
“I’m asking.”
“He’s a hip young guy, is all,” said Vicki, who subscribed to many magazines that could be purchased in the supermarket checkout aisles. “He looks like one of those guys in that band, the Strokes.”
Alex caught her eye. “I got somethin you can stroke.”
“Oh, please, Alex.”
“I’m sayin, it’s been a while.”
“Must you?”
“A guy can dream.”
“Call the pizza in, honey.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He went to the phone and ordered a large pie with anchovies and mushrooms. Vicki, aligning her lettuce, cucumbers, onions, and carrots near the cutting board, spoke to him as he hung up the phone.
“Honey?”
“What.”
“We’ve got to do something about the building.”
“Okay.”
Alex and Vicki owned a 1,700-square-foot brick structure, formerly a Pepco utility substation, off Piney Branch Road in Takoma Park. It had been zoned for commercial use and for the past five years had been leased by an Iranian who used it as a carpeting and flooring showroom. When the man’s operation had gone the way of the corded phone, he had vacated the premises. Vicki was worried about the cash flow, but Alex was not. She maintained their books, did their taxes, and managed their investments. Alex had a talent for running a business but was uninterested in the mechanics of money.
“I’m gonna find a tenant,” said Alex.
“You’ve been saying that since the Iranian moved out. Six months now.”
“The building’s paid for.”
“We still pay property taxes on it.”
“ Okay. ”
“I’m just pointing it out, Alex.”
“Just don’t go stomping your little foot over there. You hear me, Thumper?”
Vicki smirked, her eyes on the cutting board as she halved a head of iceberg lettuce.
