by Michele Carroll

Created on: October 31, 2009   Last Updated: November 02, 2009

A Slice of Pie

I remember a time when I was about seven or eight years old traveling with my parents through Virginia. We were on our way to Natural Bridge to see relatives. It was way past the dinner hour and we stopped at a cafe with welcoming lights, to eat. We were the only customers in the place after what appeared to be the end of a long and busy dinner rush.

The tables were still cluttered from previous diners. A Patsy Cline tune mingled with the sound of dishes & glasses clinking as the waitress cleared the dirty tables. I don't recall what I ordered for the main course, but I'll never forget the magnificent slice of blueberry pie I had for dessert. In the world of pies it was perfect. The purple cushion of berries sat high and glistening between lightly golden brown crusts. As the waitress served it to me, my mother exclaimed, Oh doesn't that look good! A feeling of pleasure came over me when the succulent berries burst against the roof of my mouth with tangy summer sweetness.

The young cook came out to finally eat his own dinner, a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes in hand. He took an empty table near ours. My family had their own restaurant in New York state so my parents naturally understood his weary demeanor. My father cheerfully complimented him, "Hey pal that was a delicious meal you made us." Dad always called men he didn't know pal. The cook grinned in appreciation. "Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said, as he cut into the meat with his fork. Then, just as he began to eat, the door opened and in walked another party of famished travelers. The cook looked up with a resigned expression and without a complaint he dutifully got up and went back to the kitchen to fix their order.

I finished my desert with a sense of guilt that I was enjoying this great pie, but the hungry young cook who cooked us dinner had to leave his own meal to grow cold. I kept glancing toward the kitchen door thinking any minute he would come out. He did not return before Dad paid the check and we left.

I've had a lot of blueberry pie since that night. Somehow it's never as good as my memory of that slice served in the southern cafe of my childhood; but it always reminds me of the young cook and wondering if he ever got to finish his dinner that night, so long ago.

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