Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1986. július-december (40. évfolyam, 27-49. szám)
1986-11-20 / 44. szám
Thursday, Nov. 20. 1986. gurgling of gallon jugs being emptied down the sinks and toilets. The evidence had to be destroyed. "You're lucky to have such a smart mother, making good money for your family when no one else can get work," I told my buddy. "Yeah, we know, she's great. It's too bad you lost your mother. My mom says she was the best woman around here," he said, returning my compliment. I spent many hours in my neighbor's kitchen, especially during the winter months. Her customers usually bought by the drink, and often lingered for hours. The huge coal stove was hot and fresh coffee always ready. It was a warm and friendly kitchen. I enjoyed meeting many interesting business and professional men, including some politicians. Most everybody was making home brew beer during prohibition days. We didn't because Pop did not like beer. He preferred his "palinka", Hungarian whiskey. He never drank during the week; his work was too tough. The folks next door made home brew in the early days of Prohibition, but gave that up for more profitable corn whiskey. My pal claimed he remembered the technique. Between us, we acquired the hops, yeats, bottles, caps and other things needed for home brew. We had dug out a cave years before up the creek from our house. That became our brewery. "We'll all get rich, Johnny. The neighborhood is full of bootleggers, but nobody is selling home brew." "Sure hope so. I need money for books and school clothes." For weeks this project occupied most of our time and we were estimating high profits. We made and bottled the brew, and capped it with a borrowed press. We went to the cave each day to check our product. Our sixth visit revealed a disaster. Every one of the twenty-four bottles had blown its lid. The cave was awash with beer. "It tastes like piss," my bootlegger partner said, sampling a bottle still half full. "Next time, let's make wine like all the Hungarians and Italians. We'll get help from real experts on that," I suggested. In the spring Pop asked if I'd like to help him with a new business he had in mind. "The other side of our house is empty. We have double sinks, a big stove in the kitchen, some tables and chairs in the cellar. Let's open a restaurant for the lunch business of the Simonds workers next door." "It's a great idea, Pop. You can count on me to help," I said. "You be the cook. I'll be the waiter and dishwasher. I know some Simonds workers and will ask them about it right away." I knew the night watchman, had many pleasant talks with him, and went on his rounds a number of times. He thought the idea had merit if prices were low enough, since most men were working only three days a week. After the office staff went home for the day at five, I walked into the shipping department. The shipping clerk was friendly and remembered me. "My father and I are planning to open a restaurant soon, at very low prices so it would hardly pay to pack a lunch bucket. We'd like to know what you think of it," I said with a notebook in my hand. Market research. "I don't know Johnny. All of us would like a warm meal for lunch once in a while, but it depends on the price and what the food is like. I wish I could help you more." "Let's go to the auction Friday night. Thursday, Nov. 20. 1986. Elizabeth Gojack - 17 or 18 (the lawyer) (she will be 78 on August 13th - lives in Ogden, Utah ) We might find some dishes or pans or something else for our restaurant," Pop said. He was treating me like a partner. Two auctions and a restaurant supply store featuring used equipment helped us outfit the "Gojack & Son" restaurant. We had to buy some new items, like paper tablecloths, napkins, salt and pepper shakers and paper for our outside toilet. We had to show class, always having real toilet paper in good times. When Pop was out of work, we went with the fashion in the tenements where the truly poor people lived, using newspaper, catalogs and old magazines. "We need a Board of Health permit before opening, so save the toilet paper for then, but clean up the toilet, Johnny. If there's leftover paint in the shed, give it a coat at least part way up." I was getting excited and knew Pop wás too, but he acted like he opened a business every week. Neighbors were curious, and quick tours were given to friends. We never asked their opinion because eating out in that neighborhood was as likely as flying to the moon on an elephant. There were best wishes from all and everyone predicted a huge success. While waiting for the Board of Health inspection, we washed the walls and scrubbed everything. You could have eaten off the floor. "Johnny, it looks like the kitchen got a little dusty since last week. That Board of Health man can be here any day, so why not go over it again every morning until he gets here?" Pop asked and I complied. The inspector came the next day and spent two hours examining our small place. "Mr. Gojack, you are to be congratulated. Only a newly-built restaurant could look as spotless as yours. I have only one question. Why are most of the dishes on the table of different colors and patterns?" "That was my idea. We have some curtains coming with a patchwork quilt-look and we want to keep that old-fashioned look about our place," I answered for Pop. "That's a helluva good idea. We are getting away from old-fashioned ideas and quality with everything coming out of a can. I just bet this is going to work well for you," he said, giving us our Board of Health permit. Pop and I spent the rest of the day in a friendly debate on what to have for a starting menu. He had the most ideas. 9. Having done the market research with two Simonds workers, I urged we keep the price under twenty cents. Pop insisted on two choices for an entree and choice of two vegetables. Bread plates would be piled high, with a large butter dish on every table. These were to be placed on the tables as the customers began sitting down. Coffee was included, with soft drinks or milk extra. "How is this for size, Pop? I bummed this wide, white paper from the butcher shop. They gave me a heavy crayon and tape to put it on the windows facing the factory. "They're good Hungarians and we'll by our meats there. It's the best butcher shop in Dayton. It's nice they gave us this help." I lettered the butcher papers with our nineteen-cent special and taped them in the windows the next morning. Our "Open soon" signs came down and were replaced with larger ones reading "OPEN". Pop spent the morning in the kitchen, asking for a little help from me once in a while. I put on my new white apron at eleven and began pacing the floor in front of the windows. When the noon shop whistle blew, I watched for the exodus out of the factory gates, heading for our restaurant. Only a few came out and they went to the store across the street, for tobacco mainly. None bought food there. "Anyone come in yet?" asked Pop from the kitchen. "Not yet, maybe there's some trouble in the shop." By the time lunch hour was over, we concluded there had not been enough notice. When wives packed lunch this morning, they had no information about our opening. Not discouraged, I put up more signs the second day. No one showed up. Same for the third and fourth days. I went to see my night watchman friend. "It looks like Simonds is busy, but not with orders. To spread the work and avoid layoffs, the company has most everyone working only three days a week, and some are getting only two days' work. They're spreading work through the week, but also spreading misery, and that's why workers here cannot afford to pay cash for lunch. It's easy to fill the lunch box with food already in the house, and these guys have to watch every penny," he explained. Pop and I discussed this report briefly. "That settles it. We'll close up until the factory has everyone on a five-day week. No use in wasting time when the business is not there," announced Pop, always decisive. He taught me to lose gracefully and assume responsibility. Our retaurant failure was forgotten in the Fall, when football was our passion. I played "running guard" for the Verhovay Athletic Association, the Hungarian insurance society. My brother Andy played for the Dakotas, a sister team and tougher. Like the pros of today, we played for money. The amounts differed. We charged no admission and supporters passed a bucket during the half. The winning team divided sixty percent, with losers getting forty percent. Players ended up with three to five dollars, depending mostly on the prestige of the visiting team. I think of my semi-pro football career every day when I strap myself in for traction to avoid surgery for my injured cervical spine. Carrying the ball at 130 pounds against players weighing forty to sixty pounds more was the major folly of my youth. My last game landed me in the hospital. (To be continued)
