Lunch with Albany

Name of Place Visited: Pepper Jack’s
Street Address: 217 Western Ave
Date, Time of Day: January 31, 2008, 1:10 p.m.

Leaving my comfort zone.

I look at my watch and it’s not even one o’clock yet. My next class isn’t until 4:15 because one of my teachers cancelled English class today. Instead of going to get the frozen dinner box out from underneath the cold confines of the passenger seat in my car, I walk out of Albertus Hall and pause just long enough to decide which direction to go in. I turn right down Western Avenue in search of a more enticing lunch. I commute to the College of Saint Rose from Schenectady, so I have not ventured down this end of the street past the college before, but I figure it’s about time.

I don’t feel entirely comfortable walking alone, but there are blue and white signs along the sidewalk announcing “Operation Safe Corridor” and I pass the security offices of Saint Rose, so I heave a little sigh, shift my book bag straps on my shoulders and continue on. There is a bright blue cloudless sky but the sun is deceiving. I am finding that it is actually quite cold outside, and I shove my fingers deafly into my thin black driving gloves and then deep into the pockets of my corduroy coat. Tall shadows of buildings are cast across the street and I squint against the glare of the sun to see the traffic lights when I look up to make sure it’s safe to cross.

I walk several blocks with my gaze concentrated ahead of me as I search the horizon for some signs of commercialism. It seems that I just pass bus stop after bus stop and apartment building after apartment building. I almost want to turn back and just go to Xing Long on Madison Avenue for Chinese but I force down the irrational panic welling up in my heart and I keep walking. It really isn’t too long before I find restaurants but it almost seemed like forever.

From a world of cold to a world of color.

I see a sign for Mary Jane Books and I feel an odd sense of relief. At least I recognize the name of it. The brightly colored Pepper Jack’s sign across the street from Mary Jane Books also catches my attention, as does the lettering on the glass of their door: “If you haven’t had a great sandwich in Albany, you don’t know Jack.” I figure it’s worth a shot; this may be the escape from cardboard cuisine that I am looking for.

I walk around the corner of the restaurant to the entrance, and bells tinkle softly against the door as I push it open. I am greeted with a rush of color, warmth, and the mouthwatering smell of food. I walk tentatively toward the awaiting cashier while I stare up at the expansive menu mounted high on the wall behind her. For some reason I feel rushed to just pick something, but I don’t want to eat anything that might upset my stomach. I play it safe and just order a BLT and French fries and then sit down on the cushioned barstool at the end of the counter that best overlooks the intersection. I did get fruit punch though, instead of my usual, a root beer.

I finally feel like I can relax and I start to take in all the bright colors of the restaurant. Each wall is painted teal, orange or yellow. One wall is painted yellow brick. Some of the bricks have been painted orange. There is a street sign hung above framed newspaper clippings and awards that says “Pepper Jacks Blvd.” The one wall with a neutral tone, tan, has a colorful framed print hanging over the coffee counter and is credited to Wassily Kandinsky and entitled “Squares with Concentric Rings.” Cone-shaped sconces slide down from the ceiling from narrow iron rods painted white, and the single ceiling fan has light bulbs covered with art deco looking blue glass shades.

The chili pepper character on the menu and the bright hues of the place remind me of a trip I took a few years back to Arizona to visit friends. I find myself smiling as I think of the road trip we made through the dessert to the Grand Canyon when the sky was as blue as today and the sun was as high. Bill played some silly CD of his brother’s called “Yodel the Cowboy Way.” I almost laugh out loud at the thought of being crammed in the backseat while the guys bounce up and down yodeling beside me, but I am jostled from my reverie when my food is brought out to me by the young woman that took my order at the register. She has her dark hair pulled back from her face in a messy bun, and when she turns away from me to grab a ketchup bottle I see a tiny hand print tattooed on the back of her neck, off center, and more towards the bottom right. My fries are piled on a piece of red and white checked tissue paper within a cardboard container, and my sandwich is on a colored oval plate. When I see the fries on the checked paper, it triggers a memory of the pit stop we made in Phoenix at this retro fast food joint called In’N’Out Burger. I feel the corners of my lips pull up into a smile again.

I pull excess lettuce off my BLT. Lettuce is a stupid vegetable. Isn't it like 90% water or something? I eat it slowly while nonchalantly trying to capture bits and pieces of conversations around me. I find myself more caught up in trying to decipher what songs are playing through the speaker in the far corner of the room instead. It's some oldies station playing songs from the 60s, right now it's Diana Ross singing "Baby Love." I discover that after I pulled the lettuce off my sandwich, the last three bites are really just toast. I wrinkle my nose in distaste but I eat it anyway. Actually, even just the bread by itself is surprisingly good.

Pepper Jack’s Patrons.

Dozens of people come in and out of the restaurant or walk or drive by it. At first I am sitting by a middle age couple, which I come to realize is not a couple at all. I do not know their association, but they speak over the woman’s date book and debate the appropriateness of a production for high school. She is wearing a wool maroon blazer, with straight-legged black pants and black lace up shoes. She has her face turned toward the man in muffled discussion, so all is see is her short dark auburn tresses shift a little over the collar on the back of her jacket as she talks. I can’t hear much of what they are saying, but it seems they were being outwardly polite with undertones of aggravation. Much of what he suggested to her seemed to be combated with a “We’ll see,” or an “I’ll have to check first, to make sure.”

A police car makes a quick awkward turn into a parking spot on the road across the street marked “15 Minute Parking.” The man jokes that something must be wrong, or else they must really want Pepper Jack’s. The woman mutters that if it were she that parked there, she would have been ticketed. As the man stood up and pulled his white winter hat over his head, almost knocking his round wire rimmed glasses out of place, he made eye contact with me for the first time and followed up his joke by saying, “its Albany’s place to eat.” I smile back politely, then I glace again at the writing on the door. I think he was punning on their claim, but he didn’t quite have it.

For a few minutes after they left, it seems too quiet, but then a group of city workers come in wearing overalls and neon orange hooded sweatshirts. First there are two of them, then a third, then a fourth and fifth file in through the doorway. They hover in line as an orange mass placing their orders, then they sit next to me down the long counter leaving one empty stool between us. The man closest to me is wearing orange overalls while the others wear black ones, or jeans. They seem too big for him. He looks like he is swimming in dirty orange fabric. He has kind blue eyes and a rough stubbly face. I guess he is about 33. His order is called and he clunks away in his heavy boots to retrieve it. When he sits back down he mutters to his friend that he hates vegetables. The next time I look over, the peppers and onions from his sandwich are in a greasy pile on the paper napkin by his plate.

Sipping fruit punch and drinking in sunshine.

Someone walks by the window and waves in to the workmen. I look down the counter at the line of them: five neon orange blobs in a row. They match the loud colors of the restaurant, and the loud colors match the loud noises. The phone rings at full pitch, and is answered quickly by the woman behind the register to take the order. Meanwhile, I am becoming more aware of the fact the dishwasher must be behind the wall behind me. Dishes clatter and clank while the water sprays at high pressure, no doubt against those colorful oval plastic plates. The engines of the trucks that pass through the intersection can be heard as a muffled hum through the glass. Within the walls of the restaurant, people talk and mill about in line. Nothing too clearly audible, but criss-crosses of conversation, exchanges of orders and payments, the deep quick calls of order numbers ready for pick up.

The sun shines blaringly through the corner window onto my right arm. I feel warm and drowsy sitting in this place. The brightness cast across the counter reveals the wear of the wood and the salt grains scattered on the surface. I sip the cool crisp fruit punch from the straw in my blue waxy Pepsi cup. I can smell the brine of my pickle, and cooked peppers from the man’s sandwich one stool over. My French fries have long since gotten cold; their flaky texture tastes like grease. I think to myself that they aren’t worth the calories that I tried so hard to burn this morning at the St. Rose gym on the treadmill, but then again I can also rationalize that at least I walked here.

Break time is over.

I look out the window to my right, against the glare of the sun, down Quail Street. I realize that is where the orange workers must have come from, as I see a neon clad man standing high in the bucket of a truck trying to fix a utility pole, while others look up at him from below surrounded by orange cones. I hear the girl behind the counter confirm, “No peppers, no onions.” The anti-veggie guy’s buddy heard too. He asked him why he didn’t just order it that way. With his mouth full, and with annoyance, he said, “Well, I’ll do that from now on.” The policemen just now head back to their cop car across the street in the “15 Minute Parking” spot, and I check my watch. They had to have been here at least 30 minutes. I shake my head.

The work men all get up to leave as quickly as they had came, and a new guy sits down right next to me. He is turned three quarters away from me, in a large water-proof navy jacket, but I could have sworn that he just walked past the window a few minutes ago. I never even saw him turn around and come back in. He's short, and odd. He has a shaved head, but you can see from the stubble around his ears and not on top that he is practically bald anyway. He just got dessert. He sits looking around a bit, with the plastic container of his cheesecake unopened in front of him. By his right hand on the counter is a dingy white ski mask. He reminds me of the creepy guy from Home Alone who tries to rob Kevin’s house. I can’t tell if he has a gold tooth too, though. Instead of trying to find out, I decide it is time to head back to campus.