The Griddle

Forgetting his face would be difficult, as sometimes happens when I meet a stranger. His was nicely proportionate to the size of his head. Both were sturdy but not too large. His hands were what I had first noticed about him, though. His palms were broad and fleshy. Long wide fingers with soft peach flesh stretched over their bones betrayed his youth. His were not the hands of a fisherman or a carpenter. His were not blue collar hands.

"Is that cream in there"? He pointed to the small tin pitcher in front of me. I handed it to him and noticed his black wedding band as he tipped the pitcher over his coffee cup. I thought the ring must be made of tungsten metal. I wondered if he had made that choice himself, or if someone else had. I glanced over at his profile; only inches from mine. His face was broad and free of scars or wrinkles that I could discern up close. His eyes were a clear blue-green. His nose was sharp at the bridge but widened quickly toward the tip. He turned his head to face mine squarely, and smiled. "How are you today"?

"Good morning", I smiled back at him, and then looked forward toward the young man in front of me who was buttering toast for my potato, egg, and bacon breakfast; the young man who also happens to be my son. I visit him on Saturdays at the popular griddle on the pier where he works. I looked past my son through the open window behind him, to the harbor bobbing quietly under the morning fog. A woman was unmooring her sailboat and I watched as she guided it gently into the bay. It is her life I would like to live, I thought, at least for a time.

I enjoy sitting up at the bar for breakfast where I can watch my son chop and slice and decorate the food plates. Sometimes someone interesting comes in and sits next to me, like this guy today. I turned to him again and asked if he dines there often. He said this was his fourth time maybe. Me too, I told him. He has recently moved to the area to study Korean at the Presidio. His wife and their two children are from New Jersey. They were both military until the children arrived; now she stays at home. He told me they came to the peninsula in November, right about the time I moved here

We ate in silence until our first coffee refill when we needed to again share the cream. It was then when we slipped into an easy conversation about the area, our hobbies, and what brought us here. He wants to buy a sailboat and sail on the weekends. He has long borne a fondness for the sea. Me too. I told him I'm writing a book; a fictional story that involves a sailboat capsizing off the Atlantic coast. And that I need a sailing experience in order to write more authentically about it. He inquired about the plot of my story, and the setting, and asked what brought me here last year. I told him of my travels for work. We talked about parenting and the travails of having to move frequently for work. I told him the prep cook is my son and that being his mother is my favorite thing I've ever done. I warned him that his daughters would one day break his heart. He told me his oldest child is a mirror for him already and said how frustrating that is. I found his work with the military interesting, and so he told me more about it. The more we said the easier it became to move into ever deeper topics. Things like favorite books, family, food, good music, lifelong ambitions and dreams, and the things we want to do, but don't. His family is from Italy and he wants to be a travel writer. Me too. He would write about food in his travels, but I prefer to write about the features of a place or its history.

I've spent more time exploring the area than he has so he asked for suggestions of places to see, and would I recommend a book or two that he could read for enjoyment. He always wants to read for pleasure but for varied reasons he just hasn't gotten back into it. I told him I could remember well a time in my life when young children and study filled most of my days. And then with trying to provide and having a career eat up the better part of the decade after that time, reading for pleasure (or escape) is a welcome respite. I told him what I tell my son - a book can take me anywhere I wish to go.

He hopes to leave something for his children; a legacy of some sort. Maybe a piece of art or a business; something he has created. Me too. Or maybe, like him, they will be marshall artists. He pondered the possibilities aloud. I told him I had to think on what would be the best books to recommend, but what I really needed to think on is what information would serve him best at this time in his life. Somehow my recommendation seemed important. Maybe only to me, but the impression I would leave upon him felt strangely essential. We talked for awhile about interrogation, which is his military specialty, and how the same skills used in interviewing could segue into a travel writing career. Of course it's very simple; if you listen to someone long enough they will tell you exactly who they are. Knowing the questions to ask helps us better understand others, whether we are trying to gain secret knowledge or trying to discover what food brings someone pleasure. Few things are as intimate as drawing out secret information or enjoying a meal together. We both smiled at the irony in that.

After about forty-five minutes we both accepted another coffee top off; neither of us wanting the conversation to end. He took out his phone and showed me a photo of his family and pulled up a notes app to save my suggestions for sightseeing. He promised to visit Pfeiffer, my favorite beach. We talked about the different places we had been across the world, the food we experienced there, and what we carry within us from those places. More than once during our conversation I thought how easy it is to mistake loving someone for being in the presence of a mirror.

I ended up choosing Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn as a book recommendation. I told him if harsh sexual epithets don't make him squeamish then the writing is exquisite; and every young man should have the chance to hear Miller's perspective on life. I also chose The Ronin; a 12th Century Zen tale by Jennings, because it is gripping, romantic, and full of truth on the contradictions of human nature. I guess I chose Tropic of Capricorn for the same reason. I recommended Cannery Row as well, even though I haven't read it, because I know that it offers a clear reflection of life, as well as a history of the peninsula.

Long past time to leave, I stood and pushed my coffee back. "We're taking up space for too long", I told him. He stood up, too, and said it had been a pleasure to meet me, and that perhaps we would run in to each other here again. "I'm sure of it", I told him, and then he could tell me of all the places he had visited in the meantime with his family. I cautioned him about the unpredictability of the waves at Garapata, and its unusually deep shoreline. But urged him to take his children down there in his arms so that they could experience it. And so that when they return here as adults Garapata will feel familiar to them. He extended his lovely hand to me to shake mine, but I did not take it. I pretended not to notice. Touching his hand seemed too intimate a gesture. I said goodbye to my son; thanked my Saturday morning friends for breakfast; placed a twenty on the counter; and walked out of the griddle with him walking a few paces behind me. For a moment I was 25 again. I sensed that in a different place and time, this stranger and I might have easily fallen in love over breakfast. And in our own way we sort of did.

The day had become sunny and warm. I pulled my sunglasses down over my eyes and walked toward my car, stopping to look over the pier at the surfers. I was still thinking about his outstretched hand as I backed out of my parking space. I saw him there in my rearview mirror, mounting the motorcycle he had spoke of just moments earlier - another of his passions. Watching him pull on his helmet and walk the bike backward, I was moved, once again, by the beauty of a stranger. I thought of the influence we have, as strangers, to shape each other's thoughts and emotions; how we affect each other. And we are all strangers to each other until we are no longer. A stranger is often no more than a shadow in my peripheral vision - like someone in a coffee shop I don't speak to, or barely notice. Until the moment when I crossover to face him; and in him I find a mirror. I find someone I might never forget.