My father's tavern, Hartford, Connecticut

by Dr. David Fialkoff, Editor / Publisher

On being discharged from the army after World War Two, my father bought a tavern. Before the war he had been a baker. Knowing how to make dough, he served pizza and beer.

A few years after I was born (in 1957 when he was 40-years-old) a patron came into the tavern with a long face on. After some back and forth, it came out that the fellow was $7000 in arrears on his home mortgage. My father offered to invest that amount in the property to make him current. The man cheered up.

A few days later, they arrived at the designated time and place to make what they thought was just a payment. As it turned out, the house was already in foreclosure. The $7000 certified check that my father had brought was the down payment required of whoever won the auction that was about to take place.

My father apologized to the man whose house it was, saying that he was not prepared to extend him more than $7000, and asked the fellow if he minded if he, Dad, participated in the auction. Dejected, the man said it was all the same to him, and left.

It was a Saturday morning. Everyone else in attendance was in suits and ties. Dad had on Bermuda shorts, a sleeveless tee-shirt and moccasins with no socks. The bidding went up by increments of $500 to $14,000, with Dad buying the house.

Two days later, mid-afternoon Monday, two of the fellows Dad had been bidding against on Saturday came into the tavern: "Are you Isadore Fialkoff?" "Yes." "You bought the house on Plainville Street on Saturday for $14,000?" "Yes." "Would you like to sell it to us for $20,000?" "Yes." Dad had found a new profession, and two new associates in that profession, whom, when I was older, I came to know.

After selling the tavern, now and then Dad would go back to visit the establishment. When he did, the customers would tease the new owner, Ivan, asking Dad, "When are you going to teach this guy how to make a pizza?" Ivan asked Dad not to come back.

But Dad, my brother and I, did go back to that neighborhood every Saturday after synagogue, to have a pizza at another place, a pizzeria, not a tavern. There, on occasion, someone would recognize my father and say hello, "How are you doing, Sam?" which was a bit confusing for me since Dad's name was Izzy, not Sam.

Also confusing, in a very similar way, was the fact that Dad called my brother (22 months older than me) and me either "Charlie" or "Harry," which were not our names either. I can't remember when it was, but putting these two anomalies together I came up with a reasonable conclusion. I surmised (Dad not being available for such questions), that Dad, not being able to remember the names of his tavern patrons, called them all either Charlie or Harry, and that they, in retaliation, called him Sam.

I'm sure that he made a good pizza, but he told us, "People come back for your bullshit," your patter, repartee, jocularity, razzing, wisecracking. I remember this when I go in to patronize a store, always mixing it up a bit with the shopkeeper, more the next time, if they play along.

In this regard, I have a lot of fun at the local green grocers. It's a family affair with uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, but strangely enough, according to my current state of knowledge, no fathers, mothers, sons, daughters.

How boring it must be to attend to a stream of customers all day long, who do nothing more than place their purchases on the counter and produce their money when you announce the amount. Profitable perhaps; boring for sure.

Under the same rubric, "mixing it up with shopkeepers," the day after returning from my recent visit to New Orleans I bicycled down to the Oxxo on Calzada de la Aurora to put some money on my phone. The two young ladies behind the counter were having a very friendly exchange with two other young ladies in front of the counter. This ended quickly enough with the clerks each saying "Bye." The next and only one in line, I thought, "Now it's my turn."

"What is this 'Bye?'," I demanded in Spanish, adopting a faux outrage. "Bye is a gringo word. We are in Mexico. You should speak Spanish: nos vemos, adios, hasta la vista... no?," slapping the counter for emphasis. They giggled, appreciating the irony of a gringo telling them to be more Mexican. The interesting thing was the face, the attitude of the middle-aged woman who approached, overhearing as she carried her few items to the check out. She smiled, appreciating the obviously comic, over-the-top nature of my admonition, but she nodded in agreement with the sentiment behind the joke.

As I write this it's Sunday. I just received an email from a reader who just read the article, my article (there were others) that I published today. The reader commented upon an episode which I wrote about in the article. You can read that there. Here I will give another example of the exact same phenomenon from a few years ago:

As I stood nearby, a woman got out on the driver's side of a cab, stepped forward to the driver's window, handed him money and absolutely gushed, in English, "Thank you," as if the man had just saved the life of, if not her child, then her cat. And I thought, if she is really all that grateful, she should try speaking Spanish and say, "Gracias."

The reader quite correctly noted, "A 'thank you' should be graciously accepted no matter what language was spoken!" And I'm sure that in both these cases the English thank you's were. Growing up being called Charlie or Harry I'm accustomed to a certain flexibility when it comes to words. I don't really care what language you use to say hello, goodbye or whatever else it is you are trying to communicate, but Mexicans do.

November 17, the day after this article publishes, marks my 15th anniversary of moving to San Miguel. I have acquaintances whose families have been here for two or three centuries. But in 15 years I've begun to know my way around, and I feel qualified to comment on local customs.

And to the dear reader who wrote with a note about manners, thank you, gracias, merci, arigato, धन्यवाद... Your comment is gratefully received, and quite true. It's good to hear from you, especially as it gets a little lonely out here on the periphery. I'm sorry for not writing back personally, and for this long-winded response, but we have to talk about something while your pizza is cooking.

Keep those cards and letters coming.

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Dr. David Fialkoff presents Lokkal, public internet, building community, strengthening the local economy. If you can, please do contribute content, or your hard-earned cash, to support Lokkal, SMA's Voice. Use the orange, Paypal donate button below. Thank you.

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