We went to Buddy’s. It was only a few blocks down Fifth from the Fine Arts Building, and we walked in a friendly silence, with me stretching out of my usual rambling shuffle to match Rose’s long-legged, straight-ahead stride. When we got within about twenty feet of the restaurant, the smell of garlic hit my nose, and when Rose pushed through the door and held it for me, the tangy odor drew me right inside, like a warm, welcoming vacuum cleaner.
I’d heard Joe talk about Buddy’s, but he always made it clear that it was the place he went with his teammates and that I was not to expect him to take me there. I wasn’t old enough to drink legally anyway, although we could have sat in the restaurant side. At the same time Joe was indicating that Buddy’s was off-limits to me, he did so much talking about the place that it made me want to go there. He said their cooking came as close to what he called “real New York Italian” as anything outside his mom’s house could, but the way he said “anything” and “could” told me that he still didn’t think that much of the food.
It was near closing time when we got there, and I followed Rose through the restaurant part of Buddy’s where two dispirited couples lingered over their pasta, idly stirring the last few bloodied strands of spaghetti. We went on into the bar, which was livelier than the restaurant. Rod Stewart moaned “Do You Think I’m Sexy?” from the rainbow-lit jukebox, but he didn’t drown out the raucous laughing of a group of jocks pushed close around a table in the middle of the room. I recognized a couple of Joe’s teammates, but they were so deep in the telling of a joke that they didn’t notice me. A couple of older guys--professor types with beards and those little round wire glasses--leaned against their stools at the bar, arguing and waving their beer glasses at each other for emphasis. Rose nodded a greeting to two women dressed in bikers’ leathers who were sitting at a table for four by the window. I thought they might ask us to join them, but as we passed, they just smiled briefly and went back to their conversation, leaning far over the table, their faces only a few inches apart.
Rose pulled two chairs around the smallest table near the back door of the bar. “What’ll ya’ have? I’ll get it.”
“Uh, beer, I guess.”
“Well, yes, beer. Any particular kind?”
“Oh, yeah. How ‘bout a Bud?”
“Bud,” said Rose and turned away toward the bar.
I felt a little embarrassed. I’d drunk plenty of beer with my brothers and with Joe, but to be honest, I’d never paid attention to what I was drinking; I’d just downed as much as I could, as quickly as I could, trying to be like the guys. My oldest brother liked to brag about how much beer his little sister could put away, and he used to buy it for me and my friends whenever we wanted it. Rose was the first person who had ever asked me what kind of beer I wanted, and it made me feel more grownup but also kind of stupid.
I watched Rose reach over the bar. In one graceful motion, she gathered a beer bottle in the circle of each thumb and forefinger, hooked her third fingers through the handles of two icy mugs, crooked a five-dollar bill at the bartender with the little finger of one hand, and pivoted back toward our table.
A waiter ambled up behind Rose, and she said to him over her shoulder, “A salad and a Chick’s Special with meatballs. Two plates.” I waited for him to ask me what I wanted, but he turned toward the kitchen without even glancing my way. We sat in silence for a few minutes, Rose drinking her beer in big, thirsty gulps and me sipping mine and looking around the room at the people, the jukebox, the collection of red items hanging from the ceiling.
Rose laughed. “D’you think they’ve got enough shit up there?”
“Yeah. What’s it all for?”
“For? For decoration.” She pointed to a mobile of lacquered boxes hanging in one corner, their shiny red sides twisting in the warm air. “That’s mine. One of my first art projects. Ah! Here’s our salad.” The waiter plunked two plates of food on the table and drew two smaller plates from underneath his arm.
“Anything else?”
“Nope,” said Rose. “Thanks.” She dealt me one of the smaller plates and filled it with large, oily hunks of lettuce from the overflowing salad bowl. “Antipasto?” she asked.
I didn’t know what she meant. “Anty--?”
“Antipasto.” She held up tiny triangles of pale cheese and salami. “Like an appetizer.”
“Oh! Oh, okay, yeah. A piece of cheese, please.”
Rose flipped the small pieces onto my plate. “Take half that sandwich, too. Don’t try to talk while you’re eating. Just enjoy it.”
I did. I thought the food was absolutely exotic. Buddy’s garlic salad, dripping with olive oil and mined with huge chunks of bleu cheese, was about as far from the plain green Jello salad served by the church ladies in my home town as New York City was from Paris, Idaho.
We sat and ate and listened to the jukebox and the laughter of the guys at the bar, and it was wonderful. I felt sophisticated and excited, yet content, and, of course, at that moment, I had the biggest crush on Rose that I’d ever had on any teacher or any boy in school back home in Paris.
So Buddy’s became the place where Rose and I usually met. I didn’t tell Joe, not until the end, mostly because he’d staked out Buddy’s as his territory, but also because Buddy’s became part of a secret life I had outside the one I had with him. I didn’t mean to make it secret, and if he had asked, I’m sure I would have told him all about Rose and going to Buddy’s. He just never asked. Which should have clued me in about my relationship with him. Now, it seems obvious. Oddly enough, Joe and I never ran into each other at Buddy’s. I sometimes saw his teammates there, but if they told him, he never mentioned it to me.
