June 19, 2013--Italian Roast

One thing that grates while in New York City is being surrounded by the many trust-funded young people and others being so over-genrously supported by their parents that they develop a sense of entitlement.

I know that life is unfair, but parents' willingness to buy their son or daughter a million-dollar apartment doesn't mean they shouldn't be thinking about being self-supporting or at least looking for ways to give something back.

I am admittedly over generalizing--and I too confess to a sense of entitlement in regard to some aspects of my lifestyle--but there is more than a grain of truth in this perception and it is concerning. Everyone should be striving for something that they can do or contribute. And those fortunate enough not to have to, should make a special effort to do so and at least acknowledge their good fortune.

Then there is Luis at Italian Roast, one of our go-to places for morning coffee while in the city.

We needed to get an early start and Italian Roast is one of the few cafes in our neighborhood that is open all night and is thus serving very early on Sundays. When we arrived at about 7:00, only one other table was occupied and so it would not have been surprising to find the staff half-asleep while waiting for things to pick up. But our server, who turned out to be Luis, was almost too awake, too perky for those of us who need to be caffeinated gradually.

I ordered my usual double espresso and Rona asked for a pot of English Breakfast tea. Luis was back in a flash with Rona's tea and not too long after that with my coffee. "Is there something you'd like to eat?" he bubbled.

"Just a croisant for me," Rona mumbled.

"And a toasted baguette for me," I muttered, not making eye contact, "With butter on the side."

Luis bounded for the kitchen to place the order and before I could down four sips of my espresso was back with our food.

"I brought you some jam," he chirped, "Most of our customers like a little jam with their baguettes."

Eyes still averted, I grumbled, "Thank you," and returned to concentrating on my coffee.

Not to be deterred, Luis hovered by our table and in a few minutes asked, "Is that hot enough for you, ma'am?" Rona ignored him, "I can bring you some more hot water if you'd like."

"Were OK," I said. "If we need anything else we'll let you know. You've been very helpful. Thank you. Everything's fine."

Rona smiled at me, appreciating my taking charge of the situation.

"I wonder how much coffee he's had," I said when he was out of earshot.

"Plenty," Rona siad, "And who knows what else."

"That too," I said, "I wonder what time he got in this morning."

Probably no later than 5:00."

"Or, that he's been here all night. Like the nightshift waiters in the old days at Balthazar who stayed overnight to wait for breakfast to be served."

I saw Luis hovering, eager to be of more service and so, by then more alert, not wanting him to feel ignored or under-appreciated, I signaled to him. "You know, I could use a little more steamed milk for my espresso."

"No problem," he said over his shoulder as he bounded toward the bar where the coffee was prepared.

"That was nice of you," Rona whispered, "He's so eager to be helpful."

When Luis returned with a huge pitcher of steamed milk, I couldn't help but ask him, "You seem so awake. What time did you arrive this morning?"

"And what kind of coffee are you drinking?" Rona added. "I could use some of it myself. I have so little energy in the morning."

"I didn't get here this morning," Luis said with a smile breaking out on his face. "I began at 11:00 last night. I came right over from my other job."

He saw us looking at him quizzically. "I work at a wine bar in Rockefeller Center. Usually from 2:00 to 10:00 and so I can get here to the West Village in plenty of time."

"On weekends?" I asked.

"No, pretty much all the time. I do this six days a week. I usually have a day off. Mainly Wednesdays. So it's not that bad."

"Really?" I blurted out, thinking about so many of the young people we had been encountering, lingering over their own coffee late into the morning. "That sounds like a lot to me. I mean a lot of working."

"Well, last week was a tough one, that I'll admit."

"What was tough about it?" Rona asked. "If you ask me working your schedule six days a week in itself sounds pretty tough."

"The guy who usually fills in on Wednesdays had to go somewhere because his mother was sick and so I had to work seven days, pretty much around the clock. That was tough." We both nodded. "You know, when I leave here at about eight o'clock, when I get home, I'm so charged up it takes me a few hours before I can manage to fall asleep. Sometimes I don't really get to sleep before I have to turn around and head for my day job. I live in the Bronx and it takes me about 45 minutes, door-to-door."

We looked at him sympathetically. "But there's no reason to be concerned about me." I tried to shake that thought off, feeling he already has enough to handle and didn't need to bear the burden of my attempts at empathy.

"I'm doing fine. These days you're lucky if you have only one job." He smiled again. "And think about me--I have two good ones."

He looked around the restaurant which by then was slowly filling up. "Early  mornings I'm waiting all the tables on my own and don't have to share tips with anyone else. So I make pretty good money."

We nodded again, this time emphatically.

"Hey man, nothing to worry about. This is my America!"