“Thank you for telling me, Hannah. I wasn’t at all aware of this. I will have some strong words with Mazie, believe you me. If I ever lost Sophie, that would be a real nightmare,” shuddered Annie.
Hannah didn’t reveal to Annie that Mazie had also called her a “damned busybody” and a “wrinkled old wind bag.” Maybe some other time.
At Horlick’s Malted Milk booth the women drank a tasty cup of the stuff, promising to purchase the product from that day forward for their families. At the Artistic Kitchen of the Washburn-Crosby Flour Company the entire process of bread making was presented. The finished loaves were removed hot from the Dutch Ovens in which they were baked, then sliced and slathered generously with fresh-churned butter and handed out happily to the eager crowd.
At the Erie County Preserving Company’s booth Annie and Hannah feasted on a generous slice of mincemeat pie along with liberal allowances of the company’s fine local Western New York preserves.
Eventually they were feeling full.
“Ooh...I shouldn’t have eaten that mincemeat pie. It’s just sitting down there like I swallowed a rock,” Annie winced as they waddled their way toward the exit.
As they passed by Perkey’s Shredded Wheat Pavilion on their way out they were invited to explore the upstairs level where lovely settees and divans were artfully arranged and strewn with large welcoming feather-filled cushions and pillows for the comfort of weary lady Exposition-goers such as themselves. They decided to rest a bit. As each settled into her chosen seat she expelled a great sigh of relief.
“Oh my, this feels soooo lovely,” sighed Annie with pleasure.
Soon both were fast asleep.
Pabst’s Preferred Customer
It took Junior almost a full month before he ceased waiting tables all night long in his dreams, running back and forth to the restaurant kitchen arms loaded with steaming plates up to the elbow. Throughout his entire night’s snooze he would reenact the tasks required of him, fearful he would spill food on some fancy lady or drop a loaded champagne tray or be fired at any moment, his pockets suddenly empty of the daily gratuities. What he most loved about the job was its unique reward of his arriving home every day with fresh money in his pockets.
Memorizing the Pabst Pavilion’s bill of fare, all its categories of Steaks and Chops, Cold Meats, Relishes, Cheeses and such was difficult enough. A Porterhouse single was 75 cents. A Sirloin was 50 cents—with mushrooms, 75 cents. Mutton or Pork Chops and Veal Cutlets were all priced at 40 cents, cheaper than a frankfurter cost over at the Alt Nuremburg restaurant.
Junior was familiar with the food names of course, so committing the fare to memory was not that difficult. But the Wine List served up a maelstrom of confusion to him, never personally having seen such a choice offered before. The wine menu listed more than twice the number of items as did the food menu; Liqueurs and Mixed Drinks, Champagnes, Clarets, Moselles, Brandies, six kinds of Pabst beer including Doppelbrau and Red, White & Blue, in addition to Guinness Stout and Dog’s Head Bass Ale, and much more.
The staff was encouraged to push the imported G.H. Mumm & Co. Extra Dry Champagne, at $2.50 a pint and $5.00 a quart.
Junior scoffed at first that anyone would pay such sky-high prices for the French bubbles, but did as instructed anyway. “The better-dressed the customer, the more you recommend the higher-priced dishes and libations,” stated manager Schutkeker.
Junior was stunned at how much Mumm’s he sold. And how often these big spenders, running up a bill as high as $40, left him a quarter tip, while an Esquimaux man from the Midway attraction who had only ordered a 10 cent ham sandwich and a 5 cent coffee one day left him a nickel.
“The rich man leaves me a tip of less than 1%, while the poor man leaves 33%!” he exclaimed to his mother after returning home from a long hard day.
“That’s exactly why the rich stay rich,” explained Hannah, “and the poor remain poor.”
Working at Pabst’s was proving to be even more of an education than Junior had anticipated, especially concerning the ways and means of different people. He began to provide special service to his fellow Midway denizens, much to the rebuke of Herr Mueller, simply because they were much kinder customers compared to the tourists.
Only when Gus Schutkeker and Herr Mueller both informed him that he was doing a fine job, other than a few small criticisms such as his favoring Midway riffraff, could Junior begin to relax.
It was around that time that the fun began.
The nearby Alt Nuremberg restaurant was bigger, more popular and more expensive than the Pabst. The Alt had 85 waiters to the Pabst’s 50. Nonetheless, the Pabst’s great location and cheaper prices drew in the more common man, including many adjacent sideshow participants. At first, Herr Mueller wanted to seat these odd Midway people at the back of the restaurant out of sight. He didn’t want his preferred customer to be offended by the entertainers’ odd eating customs or strange national dress, their extra limbs or tiny stature, feeling such visuals might disturb their appetites. These Midway performers were certainly not to be seated adjacent to the Mall promenade itself, where they would be in full view of the crowds walking by and thus discourage them from entering Pabst’s at all. Only the best-dressed and most refined citizens were meant to be displayed in full sight there.
As the participants at the various Midway attractions became more accustomed in their jobs, they began to seek distractions, some pleasant diversion from the usual, a welcoming place to gather among their own. Many found this camaraderie at the Pabst Pavilion.
Herr Mueller would have discouraged this ilk entirely had business been better than it was.
One of the Pabst’s beer taps had been designated exclusively for guests of the management so that the inventory might be best kept track of. The waiters were encouraged to take good care of certain VIP guests, and a select trusted few, including Junior, were allowed to serve from this tap at their discretion.
Herr Mueller became concerned one day when upon checking the level of inventory from this tap that far less of it was depleted than he had budgeted for. The Pabst Pavilion was his baby, and he had invited all his friends and those he felt might be influential to come by and spend time enjoying themselves, but many did not take him up on his offer. At first he admonished the staff for their not recognizing the VIPs when they presented themselves. Soon enough though he found that these important people were simply not coming by in the first place, preferring instead the atmosphere at the Alt Nuremberg.
A babble of confusion filled the Pabst at times as scattered about the central courtyard Turks, Mexicans, Indians, Filipinos, Japanese, Arabs and Esquimaux mingled and relaxed and made themselves at home.
One day Junior’s heart nearly stopped as little Chiquita The Doll Lady, in the company of her visiting mother, a full-sized human who curiously appeared younger than her dwarf daughter, waited to be seated.
For some reason this tiny miniaturization of an adult human made Junior queasy in the stomach. Junior was initially disturbed by this Midway curiosity, as he had never seen such a lilliputian, perfectly formed, proportionally correct, extremely wrinkled human before. And that voice! High and thin, emanating from such an elegantly-bejeweled little woman, with her cackling laugh sounding much more barnyard than country club. Chiquita was dressed in beautiful silk gowns and threw money around like it was water.
Junior quickly noticed that people on the Mall who had seen her enter Pabst’s followed behind her and requested to be seated near her, and spent good money thereafter. Chiquita sat in Junior’s section every time. At first she gave Junior fitful dreams as he slept, but her generous tipping, along with the tips of her admirers, soon helped dispel these.
Chiquita began to drop in regularly. She always ate heartily, typically ordering the single porterhouse, Lyonnaise Potatoes, a plate of brie with sliced tomatoes and a glass of sherry. She surprised Junior by finishing all of it, every time. Nothing was left on her plate.
He tried not
to stare, but was intrigued by her eating habits, at once both fascinating and repulsive. She moved twice as fast as a full-size human; every gesture, her speech, even her walk. But most especially her chew. Her mouth moved at an extraordinary speed as she masticated. She cut her porterhouse as if with a sabre and pitchfork, so outlandishly huge did the eating utensils appear in her tiny baby hands. Junior had never encountered anyone like her before.
She usually left him a generous tip.
On her third or fourth visit she came in with a handsome boy over six feet tall, who mentioned to Junior that he was up from Erie Pennsylvania. Chiquita barely came up much higher than the boy’s knee.
Things took an odd turn that very first day when they sat so close together that Chiquita might as well have been lounging in the boy’s lap. As Junior set down her order of broiled chicken with German fried potatoes, he noticed that her tiny hand was deeply exploring the crotch of the teenager’s pants. The boy was smiling.
As their meal leisurely disappeared, Junior returned to their table with a pint of Mumm’s.
“Courtesy of the management, Miss Chiquita,” he said as he place the champagne glasses and fresh linen napkins with a flourish. Those customers who had followed her in to the restaurant and had asked to be seated around her smiled their approval.
“Vat are you doing, Sully? Trying to get yourself fired?” exclaimed Gus Schutkeker back in the kitchen. “If Mueller finds out he’ll get rid of both uff us.”
Chiquita left Junior a dollar tip.
The following evening, balmy and beautiful, a delicious breeze softly stirring, Chiquita returned for dinner dressed in an extraordinary tiny elegant rose-hued silk ball gown of Parisian design. She wore a sparkling necklace that may have contained real diamonds. Again she was accompanied by the same towering teenage boy. People gaped. There was a fine table available right at the railing in full view of all who walked past.
“I have a lovely table ready for you, Miss Chiquita, the view from which I believe you might find highly entertaining, right over there,” Junior pointed to the very public location, “but if you’d prefer your privacy I can instead seat you and the gentleman in the courtyard as usual.”
“Oh no, we’d love to take the place by the promenade so that everyone can see me,” she effused in a tiny high-pitched voice. She had tiny teeth, an extraordinarily pink tongue and was uncommonly wrinkled for someone said to be only barely in her thirties.
“Then, please, follow me,” invited Junior as Herr Mueller appeared. Junior escorted Chiquita and her young lover to the table by the railing and handed them their menus, then made a small bow.
“I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Junior said, “to take your order.”
After he departed he was intercepted by Herr Mueller.
“Just vat do you think you’re do-ink, seating that little Midvay curiosity out front? Are you tryink to drife people avay?”
Before Junior could defend his position, a group of six very excited, very well-heeled people, three couples visiting from New York City, ran up to them excitedly and asked, “Might we be seated beside Chiquita?”
Their eyes were glued on the little lady.
“Of course you can!” said Junior. “Ladies, gentlemen, please follow me.”
Junior left the angry and now-confused Herr Mueller standing there scratching his head.
“Excuse me sir, are you the maître d’hôtel?” asked the elegant parasoled European woman on the arm of the refined aristocratic gentleman in the silk top hat.
A woman sitting at a table close at hand exclaimed to the others at her table, “Oh my Lord, look! Isn’t that the Duchess of Kent?”
“Yes Madame, I am the maître d’. How might I be uff service?” responded Mueller.
“We would like to be seated over there, close to that extraordinary little person in the pink ball gown. Can you arrange that?”
“Why yes, madam, of course. Please come this way,” said Mueller, relieved that a table with a fresh linen cloth was available just one table way from Chiquita’s.
After seating the Europeans, Mueller ran back to where Junior was preparing a tray.
“Sullivan. Giff that little woman und her friend a pint uff the domestic champagne on the haus.”
“Herr Mueller, might I suggest instead, considering her value as an attraction at this moment, that we provide her with Mumm’s?”
“No!” he dismissed. “She von’t neffer know the difference!”
Junior took a bottle of Mumm’s from the ice box, placed it in a silver ice bucket and returned to Chiquita’s table, shielding it from view as he passed Mueller.
With great ceremony he presented the champagne to Chiquita and her escort with a giant smile, popped the cork loudly to the satisfaction of all those around, and poured with great ceremony and a discreet wink.
The tiny woman clapped her little hands together excitedly before grabbing the stem of the glass firmly in both tiny fists. Junior had been careful not to fill her glass too full.
“Oh, waiter!” called a man at the table seating the six New Yorkers, “Will you bring us a quart of Mumm’s as well?”
“Certainly, sir,” answered Junior, staring at the hovering Mueller as he responded. Mueller had followed Junior with the purpose of scolding him but found himself instead converted.
“For us too, please. A pint,” politely asked the gentleman escorting the European woman thought to be a Duchess.
“Coming right up,” cheerily replied Junior Sullivan, who then ran and gathered two more waiters from the back section of the Pavilion sitting idle there, neither having any customers at their tables. Junior quickly told them of his plan as they followed him back up to the front.
“I’ll split my tips with you lads if you’ll fall all over yourselves providing Chiquita and all those sitting around her with the best service of their lives. I want to shower them with attention and service.”
The reassigned waiters scurried.
Soon the elegant nature of those diners who surrounded Chiquita’s table, and the sparkling vision of Chiquita herself in full view of the passing hordes, attracted a line of people at the entrance wishing to be seated near the celebrity and the glamorous personalities who had followed her in.
“But ve haff no tables at the moment,” Herr Mueller explained, now aware of the brilliance of what Junior had arranged, “but you can be seated immediately inside if you vould like.”
“No thank you, we’ll wait,” was the standard reply. And wait they did.
Others who had also initially been attracted by Chiquita and too hungry to wait, reluctantly acquiesced to be seated elsewhere, just so they might eat. They were escorted into the courtyard.
Almost immediately, Llavito the Mexican matador presented himself accompanied by a beautiful senorita, Columba Quintano, the dancing sobriquette, who was dressed in a wildly colorful costume beautifully embroidered with flowers and birds and butterflies in flight. All eyes landed on them upon their entering.
“Señor, señorita, bienvenidos,” welcomed Junior in his awkward high school Spanish. “Dinner? Of course. Come this way, por favor.”
Junior led them into the inner courtyard as all watched the beautiful couple glide past, then seated the exotic pair centrally for all to see, much to everyone’s satisfaction. They were provided a table amidst the patrons who had opted to sit in the interior because they were too hungry to wait for a table near their initial attraction, Chiquita.
Junior provided these diners with something exciting to ogle and talk about. Their eyes lit up and they nudged each other as the beautiful Mexican celebrities were made comfortable.
As Junior passed him, Mueller grabbed him and said, “Keep Miss Chiquita here as long as you can. Brink her und her friend caviar to go vith their champagne. Offer them cake. Brink them sherry after dinner. Offer the young man a cigar. Just keep them out there as lonk as you can.”
Junior delivered the caviar to Chiquita as M
ueller watched.
“Your caviar, Miss Chiquita,” Junior said loudly. “I hope it is to your satisfaction.”
The surprised celebrity nodded graciously.
“Oh waiter,” called a woman from the table of six. “Can we order caviar as well?”
“Certainly, Miss, I’ll bring it right away.”
Mueller stood there, beaming. He hadn’t sold any caviar in days. He was forced to feed what had been left over in an opened can to his cat lest it spoil.
Junior delivered eleven orders of caviar that night.
The sudden rush of eager excited customers quickly converted Mueller to Junior’s crafty scheme. He relocated one of his best waiters to where the Mexican beauties and their admirers had been seated and instructed the server and his helper to attend to the Mexicans like the VIPs they now were. Their tablecloth was discreetly changed out for a spotless one and an iced pitcher of brew was delivered from the VIP beer tap without being ordered.
“Cerveza. Compliments of the management,” whispered the waiter, as the grateful matador and sobriquette looked at each other quizzically.
Upon suffering Herr Mueller’s tirades instigated by the boss’ frustration over the Alt Nuremburg stealing away his society-set customers, it was Junior who understood that the very best promoters that Pabst’s could possibly wish for already surrounded them. The performers from the various attractions would become Mueller’s new VIPs. These individuals had become celebrities in their own right due to all the daily newspapers’ lengthy reports detailing the wonders of the Pan. The entire city was now familiar with the matador Llavito; with Isola Hamilton, the famed artists’ model generously blessed with extraordinarily large breasts; Fatima, the little tempest; Esau the chimpanzee; and the substantially-muscled Cora Beckwith, champion woman swimmer of the world. No one, much to Herr Mueller’s surprise, objected to the chimpanzee being seated at a table with his human friends.
Then there were the ballyhooers.
Fingy Conners & The New Century Page 23