THE ARROYO CAFÉ & MARGARET’S FAMOUS HOMEMADE PIES
Knowing very few Spanish words besides “Hasta la vista”, (sometimes with the Anglo word “baby” added), I guessed Arroyo was a Spanish family name which adorned the front face of the café on Speedway Boulevard in Tucson, Arizona. This was January 1960, my second day in Tucson, and I was still trying to thaw out from 20 years of living in New England. . In the front picture window of the Arroyo Café was a large sign announcing to Speedway traffic, the availability of MARGARET’S FAMOUS HOMEMADE PIES. I’ll tell you more about the café, but first, I’ll describe the situation which brought me to the Arroyo.
My decision to flee New England and seek a warmer climate had happened not too many hours before. On leaving my crummy little apartment in Boston, I grumbled my way to a nearby bookstore, bought a map of the United States, and paid the pretty young lady at the cash register. Since no one else was in line at the moment, I unfolded the map, tore off the northern half and gave it to the cashier saying “Sell this part to somebody else … I don’t want to look at it.” The following day, I was in Tucson, Arizona. And the day after that, I walked into the Arroyo Café, sat at a stool and ordered a coffee, black please, and asked the waitress if they might have a job for a good worker. (Now I’ll digress to say I was indeed a very good worker, had never been out of work, and my goal at any job was to have the owner or manager absolutely weep when I gave notice I would be leaving.). The waitress, on hearing my job inquiry, said “Hon, you just sit right there. Clyde will be here in ten minutes. He’s the Manager. You can talk with him. Here’s your coffee. No charge. Make yourself comfortable.”
Ten minutes … a thin, semi-wrinkled, older guy walked through the doorway leading to the kitchen. The waitress came out from behind the counter, took the old man’s elbow, led him to my counter stool, and said, “Clyde, this is our new dishwasher, his name is … What’s your name, hon?” I said it, and she continued … “his name is Rosano. Clyde, for starters, show him how the dishwasher works ‘cause we have a huge mess back there.” Clyde hesitated for a second, but recovered well, saying “OK Rosini” the pay is 75cents an hour (the minimum at the time) and you’re starting now. We walked through the door into the kitchen, over to the dishwasher to face a mountain of dirty dishes. Clyde gave me a few directions and we started the first of many loads. I stayed with it for a full eight hours, pausing only to sip coffee now and then. Clyde peeked into the dishwashing area a few times without saying anything, and at the end of the shift, came over to me. “Rosella, you did real good.” See you tomorrow, and we’ll do the paperwork.” So I had what is sometimes called “an entry-level job.”
It took the greater part of two days to process that avalanche of dishes, with added dishes from the normal café customer traffic. One thing I found curiously strange as dishes came in from the serving area … these people in Tucson didn’t seem to eat the bottom crust of the pie. To New Englanders, the bottom crust was often considered a favorite part. Oh well, these Westerners do things differently. The third day at the Arroyo, I was able to handle the dish load reasonably and had time to tackle other long-neglected cleaning tasks in the kitchen, such as windows which needed a good scrubbing, door knobs and cabinet handles were next. While sweeping, I noticed thirty or forty pie crusts stacked in a corner of the kitchen, each with its aluminum pan. I knew they had rested there for at least one day, more likely two days, perhaps more. I asked one of the three ladies who cooked, about the crusts, that I had never seen them stacked like that, and when does Margaret make her famous homemade pies? And why do the bottom crusts remain on the dishes coming back from the customers? The cook, named Lupe, responded with “What kind of pie would you like to try? Is blueberry OK for you? We’ll take a break.” Blueberry was OK and we sat down at a small picnic table in a corner of the kitchen.
“First,” she said, “Margaret doesn’t make the pies. She only does the bookkeeping and the food ordering. Second, Clyde makes all the pies, usually twice each week. CLYDE’S HOMEMADE PIES just doesn’t have a good ring to it.” As we talked and ate pie, she thanked me for working so hard and cleaning messes which hadn’t been addressed for far too long. While we ate pie, I noticed the top crust and the pie filling were quite good, but I could not get the edge of my fork through the bottom crust Then, using a butter knife, I could just barely get through. The bottom crust seemed the consistency of the average auto inner tube. To this day, I’m still baffled by that super-durable bottom crust.
Friday was payday. Clyde handed me my check, saying “Romano, you did really good this week, for a beginner, that is.” My response was that I thought I deserved a raise in my hourly rate. Clyde asked if we could discuss it on Monday … that Friday, with the payroll and other things needing attention was just too busy. I agreed to that.
Beginning the second week at the Arroyo Café, I showed up a little early Monday to allow for ample coffee intake. Lupe said we should have a cup of coffee before beginning the day and we sat down at the table. I mentioned my brief conversation with Clyde. Lupe said “Do you know you replaced two guys and you’ve done far more than the two together? Think about that when you talk to Clyde today.” That was good information. I walked to the dishwashing area and there was a mountain of dishes from Saturday’s business with the food having dried out all day Sunday as well. Another monumental mess.
As I attacked that mess, I noticed that Clyde had showed up a little early. Allowing him a little time to get his bearings, I walked into his little office, saying “Good Morning” Clyde. I want to talk about my raise.” C’mon in, Rossetti, I’ve been thinking about that, too and I’m going to give you a raise to 85cents an hour. You deserve it.” ME: “Clyde, I was thinking of $1.50.” HE: “Just can’t do that much of a raise. Just can’t afford it. Sorry.” ME: “You were paying that before.” HE: “Well, then. Let me think about that and take a harder look at the books.” ME: “So my 85 cent rate began this morning, do we agree?” He nodded yes. I said I’d talk with him the following morning. He didn’t acknowledge that.
That afternoon, after work, I dressed decently, drove to El Conquistador Hotel in the El Con Center on Broadway and got a job as a waiter to start that Saturday at an evening banquet.
Back to the Arroyo (which, in Spanish means creek or wash. In this case it referred to the Arcadia Wash which now was crossing under Speedway Boulevard). Walking into the little office, I said good morning to Clyde. After a few pleasantries, I asked “Yes Sir, do I get the $1.50 ?” Clyde looked so concerned and said so sincerely, “Rossutto, I just can’t afford that.” ME: “OK then, we agree, you can’t afford me … Friday will be my last day.”
The Arroyo Café continued in business for many, many years. While my memories of the place are few, I’ll probably always recall those special treats which I have renamed MARGARET’S FAMOUS HOMEMADE PIES WITH THE INDESTRUCTIBLE BOTTOM CRUST LOVINGLY MADE BY CLYDE.
Aureleo Rosano 05/29/2022
