Roger Pires June 21, 2012
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
Previous
The end of an era
Recently, we found ourselves in Orillia with an afternoon to kill. Our son was busy meeting his marksmanship coach so my wife and I thought we’d shop around for camping gear. We had taken a year off from the camping scene. As a result of the hiatus, some of our gear emerged from its hiding places looking like mafia snitches from the trunk of a car. Normally, when I’m in the Sunshine City on a Saturday, I pack my fishing gear. The closest I would get to a rod and reel on this day was ogling the new line of Shakespeare stuff in the sporting goods aisle of Canadian Tire.
You build up quite an appetite bushwhacking through displays of lawn chairs, Coleman stoves, and lanterns. So we headed for the food court for some low-tech grazing. Aside from a gaggle of teens huddled around one of the tables, we were the only patrons of the three surviving franchises in the “food court”. At Burger King a couple of young chefs flipped burgers to the glow of a small grease fire. At the Japanese place next to it, a man leaned – half asleep – against the counter. Whoever was manning the Manchu Wok had disappeared into the back, probably looking for a new career. We decided that risking botulism was a poor way to spend the next hour.
That’s when the brains of our little operation suggested we indulge ourselves in an age-old treat. There was a Zeller’s at the other end of the mall. With a restaurant. Dining at Zeller’s was an ancient tradition for both of us. We could take a trip down memory lane, albeit one covered in Formica.
It was the middle of the day. The place could be crowded. When we arrived however, only two tables were taken. A couple of employees tucked into a pie near the entrance. Across the room, four older ladies were laughing at somebody named Ethel.
The sign at the entrance read, “Restaurant closes at 2:00.” We found this a little curious. Why would a restaurant inside a department store be closing at peak time? Renovations? Under-staffed? They ran out of tuna sandwiches? We took our seats. When the host arrived shortly after, he did so with a frown and without menus.
“Closing early today?” “We’re actually closing for good. The Zeller’s restaurant is no more.” If I had been eating, I would’ve choked on the entrée. How? Why? The guy went on to explain that a huge American box store chain had bought Zeller’s. The high foreheads at head office had decided the restaurant was an anachronism, a dinosaur. And thus expendable. So with a flourish of a diamond-studded pen, an ancient tradition was tossed aside.
The lone waitress flipped the sign to “closed”. We were the last customers the restaurant would ever see. To alleviate the sudden downturn in our mood, the host brightened and informed us of our dining options.
“Well, you can have the turkey dinner, the turkey dinner, or the turkey dinner.” We were about to agree to the house special when a matronly voice piped up from somewhere in the kitchen, “I think I’ve got enough for a couple of orders of bacon and eggs.” And then with a cackle of laughter, “How’d you like your four strips done?” A little gallows humour to go with our all-day breakfast.
Sitting there waiting for the last supper, we swapped old stories. I remember with fading clarity, the trips with my grandfather to Zeller’s in Toronto. I would watch him sprinkle pepper on the gravy of his hot hamburger sandwich while I sucked my brains out trying to coax the milkshake from its parfait glass. The hot hamburger sandwich is the culinary version of the velvet Elvis. It’s the product of another time - when life was slower, simpler. A time when having a milkshake with your Grandpa in a department store restaurant was an event you looked forward to all week. My shake seemed so big then. I remembered the sound of the blender whizzing from somewhere in the back. I’d peer out at the kitchen but I’d never see the miracle worker who could produce such a wonder.
At length our meals arrived on serving platters. They were more eggs than bacon with home fries and toast filling up the surrounding acreage. But it didn’t matter; we savoured them anyway. As we were getting up to pay, the host declared to all in attendance, “This is the end of an era.” At the cash, Ethel’s friends debated whose turn it was to pick up the tab. The two employees sat in silence, their pie reduced to a few meagre crumbs. As I settled up the bill, the lady at the cash nodded and said, “Thank you. Come again.” Then, noticing her mistake, she giggled half-heartedly. “Oops.”
As we turned to go, I looked back one last time. It’s not often you get to preside over the death of a tradition. Thankfully. Rest in peace.
