The Wrong Open Spot At The Bar

The first time I walked into Gale’s, a northern Italian restaurant on Fair Oaks right between the two taco trucks, I felt like an orphan.

For most of the preceding decade of Sundays, I’d actually become part of a new family meeting every week. Sundays had long been all about my mom and I bravely carrying on our Sicilian family tradition of Italian comfort food and precious time spent together.

And as of March 15, 1999, our once tight knit little family consisted only of me. My wonderful team of co-workers literally became my family away from home. And Sundays became melancholy trips down family memory lane.

Who knew I’d ever walk into a restaurant alone, sit at the bar, eat dinner, and make the kind of friends who could be family…if only you could choose? And the joint was owned by real Sicilians who cooked from home recipes. Seriously?

But in what seemed like the time it takes Kobe to look for his next jumper, a certain Hollywood-based religion bought the Old Town Pasadena building and, just like that, my adoptive peeps and Sunday family experience vanished.

Somewhere around 2007 and after driving around the block a few times, I skulked into Gale’s. And for about two seconds I felt like a total outsider. The bartender greeted me like I was a long lost friend and on his hello, I took a step back…and embraced the easy warmness of the place. There were only eight seats at the bar and when I landed one, it felt like my first trip to the big table at a Blandino Lasagne Bolognese family Thanksgiving.

The guy behind the bar was dressed head-to-toe in black and on a super-busy night performed like the combination of Baryshnikov, a Wall Mart greeter, a short white college Division III point guard, and a future Trivial Jeopardy Champion. He even bought me a drink just for arguing sports with him.

Bill was the Bartender and Manager Extraordinaire…as well as the driving force behind the Pasadena neighborhood gem. I returned week after week, lately approaching day after day. The place felt like home.

Don’t know what I enjoyed most about the Bill experience. Loved the eye roll when someone who shoulda known better ordered a Mojito (Do I look like a mixologist?) Treasured Bill’s generosity and kindness, especially when he shared (on the sly) a good deed done that would impact a total stranger…like our own food drive and Toys for Tots or the turkey dinners he’d pass out to homeless folks during the Holidays. Bill was an awesome manager; I loved some of my late Saturday afternoon pizza runs where we’d have a session that should have included continuing education hours for yours truly.

Bill really knew his sports but hated college football (even though he claimed to have been born in the U.S.); he loved baseball. And it was totally okay because we both loved the Angels while despising the Dodgers. I mean, what was not to like about coming to this joint?

One Saturday afternoon, I stopped by for a quick salad and cold frosty beverage, only to look up and see none other than ESPN MLB expert Tim Kurkjian, accompanied by yet another future Gale’s friend. Bill looked just like a 12-year old kid who found a new bicycle next to the tree on Christmas morning…and that’s how I’ll choose to remember him.

Last night, following our office’s Christmas party, I got a text asking the kind of question I’ve learned to dread: “Did you hear about Bill?”

As of today, there’s one less irascible soul who could have easily conducted a master class on how to develop a vital workplace…behind a bar and in front of eight stools. And it’s tough losing another member of the family.

Last time I saw Bill was just a few days ago. I was hanging out with a few regulars at the end of a long day when we were joined by an unescorted woman who was visibly intimidated on visiting a new restaurant alone and eating at the bar (turned out her father was ninety-eight years old, a surviving Tuskegee Airman and a Harvard graduate.) Bill helped navigate the new experience, as always, with reassuring ease. When she left, the newcomer was all smiles and promised to return soon. I knew the feeling.

So I haven’t seen Bill in action since Tuesday. And I’m already missing him but I’ll remember him forever, especially on Sundays.