Once Upon a Time at a Resort Hotel

Fruit can be a fussy subject. And I’ll get to that in moment. but first:

The Grand Hotel

Back when I was a Pius Itinerant, I spent an entire summer at a large resort hotel in Maine. I started out washing dishes in the kitchen, moved up to busboy, and eventually became a waiter. The Maitre ‘D tried to convince me that I had a future in Hotels if I only stuck at it. But of course, where’s the pleasure in being a road bum if you stick to something?

I’ll disappear on Monday for a quick trip to the coast, return, and later head to Boston for a couple of days. For some reason, Jerry liked me and forgave my idiocies. Of Course, when I was there, I did absolutely anything needed, worked as long as needed, and didn’t mind the dirtier jobs or celebrities.

But, I guess it was the celebrities that sealed the deal. There were a number of TV celebrities from New York, and they liked the mouthy kid from Washington Heights who used to watch them on late-night TV. Most of the other kids waiting tables were local Maine kids heading to college in the fall and wouldn’t have recognized a Borscht Belt Comic if one fell on them. I not only knew them, but also knew some of the routines. They thought it was hilarious when I tried to tell one of their jokes and got the accent wrong.

So, what the heck does this have to do with fruit? Well, Maine was famous for its blueberries, and every morning at the Zoo (that’s what the employee dining room is called at these places), there would be blueberries. I’d have cereal with blueberries – mostly blueberries. This was a great inducement to staying around.

A Bit About A Horse

Then there was my favorite horse. Snowflake the Appaloosa loved apples. Specifically, he loved the apples on the trees of a particular orchard. As we rode by during the summer, we’d hunt out the ripening ones. On occasion, I’d climb for one he couldn’t reach. Was I spoiling him? Of course not! It was merely his due as the descendant of Nez Perce warrior horses. We got along so well because we both fought authority whenever we could. In New York, I had heard a song done by a group called the Wild Ones called Wild Thing. Snowflake loved to hear me sing the song to him. The next year, the Troggs made a big hit of it. I could just see him now, in his stall, swaying to the beat, thinking about the good times.

The Fruit Salad Affair

I also happen to be a fan of fruit cocktail. And there is another story about the resort hotel. While still washing pots and pans, I was detailed to take a huge bowl of fruit salad out to the governor’s buffet. On the way out of the swinging kitchen doors, someone entered while I was leaving. The result was much more fruit salad all over me than I normally like, and an incensed dessert chef threatening to kill me. Not long after, I was promoted to busboy.

But before returning from a brief layoff, to allow the chef to cool down, I spent a few days as a hiker on a network of local trails. It was there that my girlfriend introduced me to the joys of wild strawberries and other delights as well.

The Big Fight

Returning to the hotel, I was just in time for the Liston-Clay boxing match. The hotel was being used as the residence for the Liston entourage. There, I met a man I’ll never forget: the famous boxer Jersey Joe Walcott. It was my habit to stop by the coffee shop after breakfast for a cup of coffee that was superior to the fare served at the Zoo.

It was there that I met and spent a lot of time talking to Jersey Joe. Jersey Joe started every morning with a large glass of Orange Juice with a whole egg broken into it. I’d join him in the morning for the juice, but avoid the egg. One morning, he made a joke by arranging for my juice to be “egged” while I wasn’t looking. He then waited eagerly for my reaction. Never again, oooh never again. So every time I have a nice tall glass of OJ, I think of Jersey Joe Walcott.

Peaches

Not long after the Liston-Clay fight, I was fired. I don’t recall why. But it was almost certainly my fault. I took off for a long weekend with my friend Jimmy. He wanted to visit the coastal town where his family had a cottage. In the mornings we’d take our coffee out to the end of the jetty and eat our English muffins slathered with his mother’s peach preserves.

After visiting the coast, I returned to the hotel, where I was promptly rehired as a waiter. I was once again taking care of the New York celebrity tables, but I was banned from serving the governor.

Season’s End

As the season wound down, Jerry, the Maitre’D, once again tried to convince me that there was a career in hotels for me. He cited as an example my rapid rise from pot scrubber to waiter. The dessert chef, however, assured me that I was likely to become one of the founders of the league of worst screw-ups. With such a mixed batch of reviews I decided that being a Pius Itinerant was the best career choice.

I left the hotel and went on a grand tour, but never forgot the hotel, my favorite fruits, or the friends I met.