States, Vaclav moved his young family back to Europe. And that is where Chief grew up. His parents believed in keeping ancestral traditions intact, so Chief had been passed Eastern European habits, as well as some Indian customs (he liked the term Indian because rather than feeling demeaned by it, he laughed at how it reflected the absurdity and stupidity of the people who assumed that nomenclature upon them).
In 1968, when the Soviet Union rolled tanks into his beloved city of Prague, Chief decided to flee Europe and return to the U.S. (which had long since ditched the 18th Amendment via the 21st Amendment). He was 50 years old at that time, and one of the first things he did when he got to California was to purchase (with all his savings) this diner and the land underneath it from a very old friend of his dad.
He had learned the craft of brewing beer from his father, who had learned from his father, and so on. Chief’s masterpiece brew was a golden bodied pilsner he called “Shiky Na Nový Světový Rád” which translates (from Czech) into “Piss on the New World Order.” The label had a tactful illustration of a farmer and Comanche chieftain urinating onto the back of an enlarged one dollar bill—both their streams targeting the eye atop the pyramid.
The beer was the best I had ever had.
I PARKED in the lot and breathed a sigh of relief; I had beaten the morning surge of people, who tended to be loud and boisterous.
An overwhelming aroma of bacon & eggs, hash browns, along with an underlying scent of pipe tobacco and brewery wafted through my nostrils.
“Morning, Chief.” I took my usual stool at the counter and grabbed the piping-hot coffee that had been promptly set before me.
“Eddie, how the fuck are you, eh?” Chief gulped down a glass of milk, set it down and donned his “Old Glory” cooking apron.
“Best as I can be. What’s new?”
“Same shit. Those bastards won’t leave me alone with their fuckin’ money offers. Now they got fuckin’ lawyers who want to find a way to get place with bullshit laws. They probably pay fuckin’ politician to make bullshit law to steal place from me. Son-of-the-bitches politician lawyers … always stirring up the shit and figuring out ways to rob us.” He cracked a couple of eggs and tossed them on the burner. “Fuckin’ money, money, money. I pay tax to some fuckin’ politician I don’t know or care for so I can give good food and good beer to good people so he can make me pay for license and license and license and tax and tax and tax so I can be legitimate and legal so I can pay more so the son-of-the-bitch can stuff my money into his obese pants pockets and go and gamble in the stock market and have good time with his fat pig son-of-the-bitch banker buddies while I barely keep my head above water. Fuck him—he and his obscene pig friends will cook in hell. Shit—they probably own hell and charge devil rent. Maybe they need more room for hell so they try to buy land from me to put on extension. Hell is too overcrowded already!” He bellowed a laugh and tossed the bacon on the burner.
The little bell above the door jingled as some guy walked in. He sported a ponytail under a faded ball cap and wore dark sunglasses, work-ridden overalls, a grubby heavy-duty flannel jacket, and duct-taped work boots.
His vestment said “trucker” but his gait and demeanor lacked what most other truckers’ expressed: cumbersome fatigue. His movements were controlled, fluid and stealthy, and he floated from the door in through the diner with an effortless cloud-like advancement.
Though the place was pretty much empty, the guy opted to take the stool right next to me.
“I be right with you!” Chief yelled from the kitchen.
The trucker grabbed the newspaper that was on the counter and opened it to the movie listings. He brandished a green Hi-Liter pen from his flannel pocket and began examining the films. He’d peruse, take pause then highlight a film,
In 1968, when the Soviet Union rolled tanks into his beloved city of Prague, Chief decided to flee Europe and return to the U.S. (which had long since ditched the 18th Amendment via the 21st Amendment). He was 50 years old at that time, and one of the first things he did when he got to California was to purchase (with all his savings) this diner and the land underneath it from a very old friend of his dad.
He had learned the craft of brewing beer from his father, who had learned from his father, and so on. Chief’s masterpiece brew was a golden bodied pilsner he called “Shiky Na Nový Světový Rád” which translates (from Czech) into “Piss on the New World Order.” The label had a tactful illustration of a farmer and Comanche chieftain urinating onto the back of an enlarged one dollar bill—both their streams targeting the eye atop the pyramid.
The beer was the best I had ever had.
I PARKED in the lot and breathed a sigh of relief; I had beaten the morning surge of people, who tended to be loud and boisterous.
An overwhelming aroma of bacon & eggs, hash browns, along with an underlying scent of pipe tobacco and brewery wafted through my nostrils.
“Morning, Chief.” I took my usual stool at the counter and grabbed the piping-hot coffee that had been promptly set before me.
“Eddie, how the fuck are you, eh?” Chief gulped down a glass of milk, set it down and donned his “Old Glory” cooking apron.
“Best as I can be. What’s new?”
“Same shit. Those bastards won’t leave me alone with their fuckin’ money offers. Now they got fuckin’ lawyers who want to find a way to get place with bullshit laws. They probably pay fuckin’ politician to make bullshit law to steal place from me. Son-of-the-bitches politician lawyers … always stirring up the shit and figuring out ways to rob us.” He cracked a couple of eggs and tossed them on the burner. “Fuckin’ money, money, money. I pay tax to some fuckin’ politician I don’t know or care for so I can give good food and good beer to good people so he can make me pay for license and license and license and tax and tax and tax so I can be legitimate and legal so I can pay more so the son-of-the-bitch can stuff my money into his obese pants pockets and go and gamble in the stock market and have good time with his fat pig son-of-the-bitch banker buddies while I barely keep my head above water. Fuck him—he and his obscene pig friends will cook in hell. Shit—they probably own hell and charge devil rent. Maybe they need more room for hell so they try to buy land from me to put on extension. Hell is too overcrowded already!” He bellowed a laugh and tossed the bacon on the burner.
The little bell above the door jingled as some guy walked in. He sported a ponytail under a faded ball cap and wore dark sunglasses, work-ridden overalls, a grubby heavy-duty flannel jacket, and duct-taped work boots.
His vestment said “trucker” but his gait and demeanor lacked what most other truckers’ expressed: cumbersome fatigue. His movements were controlled, fluid and stealthy, and he floated from the door in through the diner with an effortless cloud-like advancement.
Though the place was pretty much empty, the guy opted to take the stool right next to me.
“I be right with you!” Chief yelled from the kitchen.
The trucker grabbed the newspaper that was on the counter and opened it to the movie listings. He brandished a green Hi-Liter pen from his flannel pocket and began examining the films. He’d peruse, take pause then highlight a film,
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