28 March 2010
 
Rendezous
 
 
 
There is a Greek guy named Charlie Vergos who ran the best damned rib place in Memphis, which is a pretty amazing piece of turf to stake out. He operated the restaurant he named “Rendezvous” off Second Street since 1948, or at least he did until his keen mind and unfailing work ethic made him stay home and his world began to get smaller.
 
He fed everyone from the Rolling Stones to Presidents and Prime Ministers, and was an institution in the fiver city.
 
He started out as a beer-and-sandwich joint, attuned to the tenor of his town. Back East, there is an atmosphere associated with Greek restaurants. I am thinking of Amphora in Alexandria. They do American to a “T,” but have some items from the Old Country.
 
Further West, in Detroit, the Coney Island hot dog chain is an all-American tradition spawned by industrious Greeks. Further south, Charlie absorbed the rhythms of the Delta Blues and when he cleared out a basement under his original restaurant, found a coal-scuttle he could use to vent the smoke from a fire-pit, and went into the ribs business, big time.
 
Charlie’s kids took the place to the web, too. The blurb on-line is that “…several thousand people on an average Saturday night pour into our basement and sink their teeth into a slab of what makes Memphis, well, Memphis. Presidents and potentates, the King and the Killer, Rolling Stones and everybody who’s anybody have all been down for a bite.”

I will, too, one of these days, but there are things to take care of first. Charlie was 84, two years younger than Dad and had Alzheimer’s, from what the obit said. He passed away in his sleep after the long decline. I was little pensive as I was grilling over the pit on the compound on the bluff above the bay. It is still a little raw here, but the temperature got up to the pleasant in the late afternoon.
 
I took the folks for a drive in the afternoon. Mom and I can chat and Dad enjoys the ride in the big rental Cadillac. He says so, which is gratifying.
 
There is a butcher shop across the parking lot from the Side Door Saloon on US-31 north of town. Dad’s men’s group used to have lunch there when he could get around on his own. I thought it might stimulate some memories, so I swerved the big car into the lot and we did the big getting-out-of-the-car thing.
 
He did not like the meal I cooked last night, so I thought I might do something on the grill- first outdoor cooking of the year, and something they can’t do any more. Tannery Creek is the name of the butcher shop, located in something that looks like it used to be a Pizza Hut and long time ago.
 
I was knocked out. Best Certified Angus beef and specialties I have seen in a long time- like walking into the Eastern Market back un DC with everything under one roof. I wound up shooting the shit with the owner, who has aspirations of going Big Time, and I left with a robust  well-marbled Delmonico steak for dinner, some Texas-style brisket, five smoked kielbasi, three logo t-shirts, a hoodie and two hats.
 
The wearable stuff is for advertising, and I am happy to do it for him.
 
I marinated the beef lightly with some oil and vinaigrette and pressed fresh ground pepper and seal salt onto the surface to make a nice crust. Then I fired up the grill around five and got ready to cook the thick steak. Mom likes her steak medium, and Dad used o like his well done, so I had to keep a close eye on it.
 
Things turned out pretty well. I am watching what I eat, but the steak and salad were plenty for me. Dad looked at the lumps of savory beef on his plate and I realized I needed to cut it up a little more for him. He ate much more than he did the first night I got here, so I was happy, and Mom and I chatted up a storm.
 
I should have noticed we were going to have an adventure when Dad put on his pork-pie hat and made an apologetic announcement. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I think I really need to be going. I need to get home.”
 
This has happened before, normally when strange things are happening in the house that upset him. I expect I am one of them, a strange man at the dinner table talking to his Sweety.
 
He asked about the car, and if it was near the door. He really had to get going.
 
I looked at him gravely and I said I would drive. We walked to the back door and I showed him the big Caddy, and then said it was time to get home, and I walked with him back toward the bedroom that is his fortress.
 
When we got there he was uncertain about it, and I did not have a god idea of where he was in the world. He asked me where I was from, with genuine curiosity.
 
I said I was from the Oranges, in New Jersey, a little town called Maplewood. His eyes brightened. “I am from New Jersey,” he said. “Millburn-Maplewood.”
 
“What a coincidence,” I said gravely. “I used to go there all the time. There was a wonderful old house on Sagimore Lane there I used to love.”
 
His eyes widened. “Yes, there was. That is where I lived.”
 
“You could see the lights of Manhattan across the water,” I said.
 
“Yes. It was very pretty.”
 
“You know, I think I met your brother Jim,” I said. “Wonderful fellow.”
 
“Yes he is. Did you ever meet my sister? We called her Tiny.”
 
“Well, of course I knew Barbara. Great gal. You had a wonderful family, and I used to shop at Harvey Tiger’s hardware store.”
 
“Harvey Tiger!” Dad exclaimed. “He was one of my best friends!”
 
Mom had come back and was sitting in her chair by the window waiting patiently to see if he wanted to lie down for a while. Dad looked at me intently. “What did you say your last name was?”
 
“Socotra, Dad. Just like yours.”
 
He nodded gravely, and then was silent. We had reached a rendezvous somewhere far away and long ago. It was strange but it was the best chat we have had in years.
 
Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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