The first time the AW and I ate at Holly Hill Gardens, we, like everyone, were dazzled by the beauty of the landscaping and the warmth of the restaurant area. Lousy with doilies, mood lighting, and $9 jars of jelly, Holly Hill is the quintessential Best Places to Kiss kind of restaurant.
The kitchen is closet-sized and nestled in the corner of the seating area. If you want, while you dine you can watch the cook pivoting from sink to stove to cutting board. Perhaps the best of the cooks is the owner, Stan. Stan looks like a jovial hippie burnout who, more to his surprise than anyone else's, somehow managed to survive ingesting truckloads of drugs in the 60s and 70s. And not flatbeds, either. Big rigs.
On our first visit there, the AW and I sat outside in the gardens. She ordered an omelet. It was bland. Not finding salt and pepper on the table, she asked the server for some. Stan stormed outside to our table, sans salt and pepper, and demanded to know what was wrong with her eggs. "Eep," said the AW.
The waitress apologized and explained that Stan is, in fact, pretty much an asshole. He had screamed at her for trying to sneak seasoning out the door. She is banned from putting salt and pepper on the tables, as he's already seasoned the food perfectly for all possible palettes.
"Can you get me some ketchup?" I asked her.
She shuddered, hoping this was just an unfunny joke. "N-N-No."
Book in hand, I was dining alone at Holly Hill one day. Sarah was there, ignoring me so that she could attend to the party of 8 behind me. Stan was in the kitchen, positively enraged that nine assholes presumed to give him money all at once.
At the large table was a child, maybe 5 years old. Old enough to know better. He soon started making bratty noises, and slowly but surely he crescendoed into a full-on, bratty wail. The kid's cry was piercing, obnoxious. And then Stan blew. Everyone in the restaurant leaped in their seat at the sound of Stan's scream. It was an explosion of pure, malevolent rage.
"OH, HELL NO!" he bellowed from the kitchen, pointing a bloody 10-inch chef's knife directly at the child. "NOT IN HERE!"
I'll give Stan this: the child immediately shut up. As did the parents. And Sarah. And me. I was deliberating whether Stan was a hero or villain when I glanced at Sarah. She looked back meaningfully, then buried her face in her hands in the international sign for "Fuck me. I just worked today for free."
We look back on this as the day we bonded. We're war buddies now. Terror and violence do tend to have a cohesive effect. And Stan? He doesn't remember the incident. Maybe it's all the drugs. Or maybe it just wasn't unusual enough to make bar. Wistfully, I choose the latter.