The Buggy Whip

I spent the first day after John's fall at the hospital. That evening, I met friends for an early dinner at a steak house called, "The Buggy Whip," in nearby Westchester. Even though the restaurant is blocks from the house where I grew up, my family rarely ate there. Trudy thought the restaurant was for, "people who don't know enough to go into town to eat." I love it for exactly the same reason. It's dark and unfashionable, there is a piano in the middle of the main dining room, and the portions are swinishly huge in that God-Bless-Fucking-America way. A Tom Collins with a maraschino cherry, followed by a salad drowning in green goddess dressing (tossed table side by our sassy waitress, Karen) and an order of incredibly bland sand dabs were exactly what I needed.

After dinner, I gave one of my friends a tour of my old neighborhood, while we listened to R&B oldies on V100, "Where you have a chance to win His and Her Escalades 5 times a day!" I stopped in front of our house on Springpark Avenue and expected to feel upset, or wistful, or something, but I only felt slightly irritated that the new owners had put big ornate brass handles on the garage doors of our modest California Ranch style house.

The next day at the hospital, I told Trudy where I had been. With a look of bored disdain she said, “The Buggy Whip? Does it still smell of mold? That place gives me the willies.”