The Galvin Hat, Part II. . .
>> Tuesday, January 13, 2009 –
cooking,
friendship,
galvin,
ignorance,
race,
the galvin hat
Galvin turned to me as he flipped a few steaks around and spoke casually, "Bricks," which was how he pronounced my name, "You need to come on up wit me in my club."
I turned, frozen, a handful of hot fries for a plate sizzling in my fingers, "Well, uh, that's nice of you and all, but uh. . ."
Galvin smiled through his crooked teeth, continuing to work his steaks around the grill, marking them on the hot spots and finishing them on the cooler spots. He stared straight ahead at the tiled wall behind the grills as if seeing right through it.
"Yeah man, come on over to the house on Sunday, we can have dinner with the family, I'll cook, then we'll skip on down to S&B's nightclub and have a few beers," he said.
My mind was going a million miles a minute. How in the hell was I going to get out of this? I formulated and destroyed volumes of excuses by the second, felt lousy for doing so, but I simply couldn't fathom walking up into an all-black nightclub with Galvin. I knew S&B's club. So, did the cops. Talk about standing out in a crowd. A tall, skinny, 130 pound wet weight, white boy had no business going into S&B's Nightclub.
Profusely, I made some lousy excuse about being busy, when Galvin cut his eyes to me with a sharp grin, "You ain't got nothing to worry about. You're my boy, ain't nobody gonna fuck wit you up in there! You have my word."
I couldn't refuse. I'd be a hypocrite, and a miserable excuse for a friend if I backed out, even though my rational mind told me that going to S&B's was a bad idea. The deal was sealed. Our friendship ruled and I was at the mercy of the judgement.
The next few days were like always. Tiny little dramas played out on the small stage of our restaurant. Shondra came to work trying to scalp her food stamps. Maggie, the head chef, raising hell because the meat order was wrong. James, the butcher, hiding out in the butcher's room, cutting meat, and staying away from the 'heat' of the kitchen, mainly Maggie's wrath. Galvin and I sweating over the hot line. I tried not to think of what the future held for Sunday or let my mind work itself up with it's wild, fantastical acts that play out in my skullbone daily.
Sunday finally came. I sat on my old couch in my shabby little apartment dreading the evening. And I hated myself for it. This should be a happy time, a good time with a good friend who was kind enough to invite me into his home and life. I was going to meet his kids and his wife, who I had only seen from a distance, waving every time as I backed out of the apartment's parking lot.
I felt like a shithead. I grabbed my 12-pack of Heineken, the 12-pack of Bud for Galvin and headed out the door, to the ghetto, to the great unknown. I felt sick and shameful.
I turned into Galvin's apartment complex and I could see his kids running around in the common area between two of the battered apartment buildings. His wife, Doreen, a beautiful and sedate woman, a christian, and the obvious rock of the family that everyone leaned upon, sat at the bottom of a stairwell, silently watching her children dart about.
His kids dashed over to me as I got out of the truck, "Hey Mr. Brett," the youngest two screamed in unison. The oldest son, aged about 13, quietly took one of the boxes of beer. He must take after his mother.
Galvin greeted me at the doorway, inviting me in and making sure all of my needs were accounted for. His children were well-behaved and his wife, natural in her homemaking, was setting the table and preparing for dinner.
I sat at the dinner table pushed up against the long wall near the kitchen where I could see everything in the kitchen. Galvin had an apron on and was tending to some braised pork in the oven. He had also prepared turnips greens, scalloped potatoes, cornbread and sweet potato pie.
We chatted and drank beer, laughed and played with the children. I could see that Galvin had been in the sauce pretty well, but no one seemed to mind, and now, in retrospect, I realize they were simply used to the drinking.
Dinner was fabulous, well-seasoned, and cooked perfectly. The pork turned out to be shoulder that Galvin braised in beer, a little whiskey, sage and something I couldn't place. I asked him for the secret, but he never divulged. I remembered this flavor years later when I was recounting some wild story of misadventures as a teen in Jamaica when my mother was in the Peace Corps there. It occurred to me that the flavor was pimento or what we commonly call allspice. The subtlety of it in Galvin's pork was mind-bending. Aromatic, sharp but sweet, savory and mild all in the same and in a instant, gone.
The sweet tea we drank with dinner was just how I liked it, not so sweet that your tooth enamel melted immediately upon contact, but blended perfectly so you could still taste the slight astringency of the tea. An excellent palette cleanser for such a heavy meal.
After dinner, the kids retreated to their rooms as Galvin, Doreen and I sat around the kitchen table, our bellies protruding, stupid smirks of satisfaction on our faces. Our conversations drifted wildly between my stories of childhood and their own, some of the troubles Doreen and Galvin have had with his drinking and pleasant memories of their children whom are fine, behaved kids growing up under tough circumstances.
Then, the whiskey bottle came out. Doreen excused herself and Galvin and I drank from the bottle, pulling long draws of the amber liquor between cigarette drags. We chatted as the whiskey set our full bellies on fire. A heavy, caustic digestive, but when in Rome. . .
My teeth began to feel numb with my brain not too far behind, and my stomach twisted in a knot from the burning whiskey, the heavy food, but mostly from the dreaded anticipation of our departure.
I was scared.
"Galvin," I asked, "are you sure everything is gonna be ok with me going up in this place?"
He stood up and moved over to my side of the table, grabbed my by the shoulder and promised, "Ain't no nigga gonna mess wit you up in there. I knows all them folks and they knows me. And that's it."
With that, we were out the door. The hot, whiskey soaked blood that had once been coursing through my body now sat cold and thick in my feet.
We got in the car, my sister's car which I had borrowed, and turned out of the complex towards S&B's. In my heart I was hoping that it would be a long drive and that when we arrived at 8:00 p.m. on a Sunday night, there wouldn't be much of a crowd. In both cases, I was sadly disappointed.
A four minute drive and when we arrived, there were scads of people spilling out of the building and dozens milling around the parking lot. On the surface, it couldn't have been a worse situation.
Galvin and I pulled around to the side of the building, sat in the car for a minute or two and with a last deep breath of desperation I opened the door and out we went. I walked behind Galvin and as we turned the corner of the building I felt a hundred eyes burning a hole into me. My skin tingled and flushed, my heart raced and I sweated. I heard from behind me a strange and angry voice, "Hey, who dat white boy?"
"Oh Lord. . ."
(. . .to be continued)
I turned, frozen, a handful of hot fries for a plate sizzling in my fingers, "Well, uh, that's nice of you and all, but uh. . ."
Galvin smiled through his crooked teeth, continuing to work his steaks around the grill, marking them on the hot spots and finishing them on the cooler spots. He stared straight ahead at the tiled wall behind the grills as if seeing right through it.
"Yeah man, come on over to the house on Sunday, we can have dinner with the family, I'll cook, then we'll skip on down to S&B's nightclub and have a few beers," he said.
My mind was going a million miles a minute. How in the hell was I going to get out of this? I formulated and destroyed volumes of excuses by the second, felt lousy for doing so, but I simply couldn't fathom walking up into an all-black nightclub with Galvin. I knew S&B's club. So, did the cops. Talk about standing out in a crowd. A tall, skinny, 130 pound wet weight, white boy had no business going into S&B's Nightclub.
Profusely, I made some lousy excuse about being busy, when Galvin cut his eyes to me with a sharp grin, "You ain't got nothing to worry about. You're my boy, ain't nobody gonna fuck wit you up in there! You have my word."
I couldn't refuse. I'd be a hypocrite, and a miserable excuse for a friend if I backed out, even though my rational mind told me that going to S&B's was a bad idea. The deal was sealed. Our friendship ruled and I was at the mercy of the judgement.
The next few days were like always. Tiny little dramas played out on the small stage of our restaurant. Shondra came to work trying to scalp her food stamps. Maggie, the head chef, raising hell because the meat order was wrong. James, the butcher, hiding out in the butcher's room, cutting meat, and staying away from the 'heat' of the kitchen, mainly Maggie's wrath. Galvin and I sweating over the hot line. I tried not to think of what the future held for Sunday or let my mind work itself up with it's wild, fantastical acts that play out in my skullbone daily.
Sunday finally came. I sat on my old couch in my shabby little apartment dreading the evening. And I hated myself for it. This should be a happy time, a good time with a good friend who was kind enough to invite me into his home and life. I was going to meet his kids and his wife, who I had only seen from a distance, waving every time as I backed out of the apartment's parking lot.
I felt like a shithead. I grabbed my 12-pack of Heineken, the 12-pack of Bud for Galvin and headed out the door, to the ghetto, to the great unknown. I felt sick and shameful.
I turned into Galvin's apartment complex and I could see his kids running around in the common area between two of the battered apartment buildings. His wife, Doreen, a beautiful and sedate woman, a christian, and the obvious rock of the family that everyone leaned upon, sat at the bottom of a stairwell, silently watching her children dart about.
His kids dashed over to me as I got out of the truck, "Hey Mr. Brett," the youngest two screamed in unison. The oldest son, aged about 13, quietly took one of the boxes of beer. He must take after his mother.
Galvin greeted me at the doorway, inviting me in and making sure all of my needs were accounted for. His children were well-behaved and his wife, natural in her homemaking, was setting the table and preparing for dinner.
I sat at the dinner table pushed up against the long wall near the kitchen where I could see everything in the kitchen. Galvin had an apron on and was tending to some braised pork in the oven. He had also prepared turnips greens, scalloped potatoes, cornbread and sweet potato pie.
We chatted and drank beer, laughed and played with the children. I could see that Galvin had been in the sauce pretty well, but no one seemed to mind, and now, in retrospect, I realize they were simply used to the drinking.
Dinner was fabulous, well-seasoned, and cooked perfectly. The pork turned out to be shoulder that Galvin braised in beer, a little whiskey, sage and something I couldn't place. I asked him for the secret, but he never divulged. I remembered this flavor years later when I was recounting some wild story of misadventures as a teen in Jamaica when my mother was in the Peace Corps there. It occurred to me that the flavor was pimento or what we commonly call allspice. The subtlety of it in Galvin's pork was mind-bending. Aromatic, sharp but sweet, savory and mild all in the same and in a instant, gone.
The sweet tea we drank with dinner was just how I liked it, not so sweet that your tooth enamel melted immediately upon contact, but blended perfectly so you could still taste the slight astringency of the tea. An excellent palette cleanser for such a heavy meal.
After dinner, the kids retreated to their rooms as Galvin, Doreen and I sat around the kitchen table, our bellies protruding, stupid smirks of satisfaction on our faces. Our conversations drifted wildly between my stories of childhood and their own, some of the troubles Doreen and Galvin have had with his drinking and pleasant memories of their children whom are fine, behaved kids growing up under tough circumstances.
Then, the whiskey bottle came out. Doreen excused herself and Galvin and I drank from the bottle, pulling long draws of the amber liquor between cigarette drags. We chatted as the whiskey set our full bellies on fire. A heavy, caustic digestive, but when in Rome. . .
My teeth began to feel numb with my brain not too far behind, and my stomach twisted in a knot from the burning whiskey, the heavy food, but mostly from the dreaded anticipation of our departure.
I was scared.
"Galvin," I asked, "are you sure everything is gonna be ok with me going up in this place?"
He stood up and moved over to my side of the table, grabbed my by the shoulder and promised, "Ain't no nigga gonna mess wit you up in there. I knows all them folks and they knows me. And that's it."
With that, we were out the door. The hot, whiskey soaked blood that had once been coursing through my body now sat cold and thick in my feet.
We got in the car, my sister's car which I had borrowed, and turned out of the complex towards S&B's. In my heart I was hoping that it would be a long drive and that when we arrived at 8:00 p.m. on a Sunday night, there wouldn't be much of a crowd. In both cases, I was sadly disappointed.
A four minute drive and when we arrived, there were scads of people spilling out of the building and dozens milling around the parking lot. On the surface, it couldn't have been a worse situation.
Galvin and I pulled around to the side of the building, sat in the car for a minute or two and with a last deep breath of desperation I opened the door and out we went. I walked behind Galvin and as we turned the corner of the building I felt a hundred eyes burning a hole into me. My skin tingled and flushed, my heart raced and I sweated. I heard from behind me a strange and angry voice, "Hey, who dat white boy?"
"Oh Lord. . ."
(. . .to be continued)
Well written BT, I am following this tale with some interest.
Ask me about my trip to the "Nile Club" with Uzoma Ngwabara sometime, more than few similarities!
can't wait to hear the rest of this one! after your head gets well from ferrell fest 2009 perhaps you can finish this story and then start on the party stories (i just know there will be some good ones!)