Read Online The Burg and Other Seattle Scenes by Jerome Gold - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jerome Gold
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though its regulars, unless we are eating, are careful to take our ease only between meal times or after the dinner rush. The staff will leave you to yourself if you are reading or writing (I have written all or parts of several books and a dissertation at a booth in the Burg), although another regular may want to have a conversation.
Except at meal times, the Burg is not a place for families, although you do find some older couples among the regulars. Moms and dads want to eat and get their kids out of there and over to their next activity as soon as they can. You sometimes see students from the University of Washington at the Burg, but it is not the draw that the Barnes and Noble in University Village and the QFC café section are for them. In the afternoon and later in the evening, the Burg is for the middle-aged and older, those who own at least some of their time and who prefer to place themselves apart fromthe crowd.
Among the people Iâve met or seen there regularly are a composer; a retired Boeing engineer; two retired professors; a retired teacher; a woman who lived off her investments; a man who works the occasional job so as to support his reading habit; a man who is a poet as well as a passionate and systematic reader; Wes Wehr, the artist and botanical illustrator who loved the grilled crab-and-Swiss-cheese sandwiches the Burg has offered for more than twenty-five years; David Willson, a novelist, teacher and librarian at a nearby community college who wanted to take a photo of me eating a hamburger with a knife and fork; Kirby Olson, a professor of literature and philosophy and, now, a novelist who wrote me recently from Delhi, New York that âI want to envision you sitting in the Burgermaster, reading a book;â a tutor who meets and teaches her charges in the booth behind the one I most like to sit in; a woman with muscular dystrophy brought in by her husband; a real estate broker for whom the Burg and his car compose his office; a writer and illustrator of childrenâs books; a nurse putting herself through law school; a renowned minister and columnist for one of the local newspapers; Pat, a skilled poet who had studied with Theodore Roethke but who wrote only when depressed and eventually committed suicide; and George, her lover who determined to destroy himself by increments after learning of her death.
The Burgâs regulars are individuals. Except for the few couples, most of us prefer to occupy a booth or table alone, though we visit one another freely. My friend Roy always sits at the far corner of a raised section of tables, provided noone in his or her ignorance has ensconced himself or herself there ahead of him. But no one should: the management has set a small plaque in the rail behind this table announcing that it is reserved for Roy between eight and ten a.m., and again between five and seven p.m. Should another person be sitting there when Roy comes in, he will sit nearby, waiting for the person to leave, upon which departure he will move in immediately. (Lest the reader see this behavior as unique to Roy, I note that the physics teacher prefers to grade his studentsâ papers in the same booth by the window every afternoon. I, too, have my favorite booth which happens to be across the aisle from Royâs table, and I feel a little distressed when I come in and find it inhabited by someone else.)
At his table, Roy will read poetry or Proust, perhaps Saramago. I recently recommended Schnitzler to him but I donât know if heâs read him yet, or, indeed, if he will. At his table, Roy holds court. Men and women of all ages will come over to say hello or to chat for a few minutes. People who want to see him know to look for him at his reserved table in the morning or the evening.
For the past several weeks he has been involved in renovating a house, so has often come in later in the evening. He has even skipped some days completely. Someone will come in, go up to
Except at meal times, the Burg is not a place for families, although you do find some older couples among the regulars. Moms and dads want to eat and get their kids out of there and over to their next activity as soon as they can. You sometimes see students from the University of Washington at the Burg, but it is not the draw that the Barnes and Noble in University Village and the QFC café section are for them. In the afternoon and later in the evening, the Burg is for the middle-aged and older, those who own at least some of their time and who prefer to place themselves apart fromthe crowd.
Among the people Iâve met or seen there regularly are a composer; a retired Boeing engineer; two retired professors; a retired teacher; a woman who lived off her investments; a man who works the occasional job so as to support his reading habit; a man who is a poet as well as a passionate and systematic reader; Wes Wehr, the artist and botanical illustrator who loved the grilled crab-and-Swiss-cheese sandwiches the Burg has offered for more than twenty-five years; David Willson, a novelist, teacher and librarian at a nearby community college who wanted to take a photo of me eating a hamburger with a knife and fork; Kirby Olson, a professor of literature and philosophy and, now, a novelist who wrote me recently from Delhi, New York that âI want to envision you sitting in the Burgermaster, reading a book;â a tutor who meets and teaches her charges in the booth behind the one I most like to sit in; a woman with muscular dystrophy brought in by her husband; a real estate broker for whom the Burg and his car compose his office; a writer and illustrator of childrenâs books; a nurse putting herself through law school; a renowned minister and columnist for one of the local newspapers; Pat, a skilled poet who had studied with Theodore Roethke but who wrote only when depressed and eventually committed suicide; and George, her lover who determined to destroy himself by increments after learning of her death.
The Burgâs regulars are individuals. Except for the few couples, most of us prefer to occupy a booth or table alone, though we visit one another freely. My friend Roy always sits at the far corner of a raised section of tables, provided noone in his or her ignorance has ensconced himself or herself there ahead of him. But no one should: the management has set a small plaque in the rail behind this table announcing that it is reserved for Roy between eight and ten a.m., and again between five and seven p.m. Should another person be sitting there when Roy comes in, he will sit nearby, waiting for the person to leave, upon which departure he will move in immediately. (Lest the reader see this behavior as unique to Roy, I note that the physics teacher prefers to grade his studentsâ papers in the same booth by the window every afternoon. I, too, have my favorite booth which happens to be across the aisle from Royâs table, and I feel a little distressed when I come in and find it inhabited by someone else.)
At his table, Roy will read poetry or Proust, perhaps Saramago. I recently recommended Schnitzler to him but I donât know if heâs read him yet, or, indeed, if he will. At his table, Roy holds court. Men and women of all ages will come over to say hello or to chat for a few minutes. People who want to see him know to look for him at his reserved table in the morning or the evening.
For the past several weeks he has been involved in renovating a house, so has often come in later in the evening. He has even skipped some days completely. Someone will come in, go up to
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