Pizza King of Bensonhurst - Excerpt
I wasn't always a king. I started as a servant, the lowest and most menial position in my father's unpretentious pizzeria nestled in the heart of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It was a rite of passage for every high school kid looking for a few extra bucks on the weekend. The servant's role was an indispensable step for all employees, mandating their initiation.
Today, the individuals often referred to as "servants" are typically recognized as busboys or runners. These often overlooked and underappreciated pillars of the restaurant industry shoulder the responsibility of clearing and resetting tables with meticulous attention to detail and precision. They sweep away crumbs and grains of sugar from the bright red checkered tablecloths and handle half-drunk cups of coffee and wine glasses adorned with lipstick stains. They navigate their tasks with grace and elegance that seems to transcend the mere routine.
On some days, the busboys and runners stand with their backs slumped, the effects of being on their feet for the 9-10 hour shift. Some moments reveal the essence of my father's compassion and understanding. He has an unspoken empathy for those who have had a rough day at the office, living vicariously through them and the memories of his beginnings in the restaurant business. As the restaurant's closing time approaches, he gathers the tired and weary staff members who have tirelessly served his customers. He offers solace in the form of leftover pizza from the day's preparations, accompanied by the simple pleasure of a chilled bottle of coke. He digs into his pocket and, if possible, divides a modest tip amongst his faithful servants.
Although I stood amongst the staff, my portion was not always as substantial. Yet, I understood the intention behind my father's actions. It was never about conveying ill will or negativity towards me. My father was imparting a lesson, a lesson about resilience and perseverance; preparing me for a time when I would ascend to a higher role of influence and leadership. Perhaps, preparing me for the day I would stand as the neighborhood's pizza king supporting others through their trials.
Amid it all, there was a simpler truth. All I wanted was a share of the day's tips and to hang out with my friends.
My friends spent most of their time after school hanging out, playing cards, and flipping through the pages of Hit Parader magazine. I would see them through the paneglass window howling at some dead-end joke I’ve probably heard 100 times. When I was with them, it annoyed me; now, I kind of wanted to be in on the joke too.
On Fridays, they would hang out in the front of the shop, ordering a pizza, and a couple of cokes, all while they harassed me for being their waiter, cracking jokes, calling me “garcon”. My Dad didn’t seem to mind it because they were paying customers, but he never charged them. They would finish their meals, hang around the shop till closing, and then help my dad and I put up the chairs, move the tables, and sweep.
There was nothing glamorous about working at the pizza shop. But on some nights when the neighborhood-wise guys would stop by, I was tasked to serve them and to make sure they had everything they needed. My Dad did this because he needed someone he could trust to take care of them. Most of the waiters and waitresses who worked at the pizza shop were college kids, aspiring actors, and musicians. Most of them just wanted to make their tip and go home to study or work on their craft. One thing I learned when waiting on these tables was that there was a code. They would order food and drinks, yet my father never sent them the bill at the end of the night. Instead, they all went up to him, shook his hand, thanked him, and told him what a great meal they just had. With so many other corporate pizza places springing up in the neighborhood, there were some months we didn’t do very well. Even during those months when they would come in, my father never charged them. I didn't understand it, but my father said I would one day when I took over.