A day in the life of a mid-century Glendalian

PATRICK AZADIAN

A couple of months ago, I decided to experience life as a Glendalian

of the mid-1950s. This would have been a time when Glendale was a

quiet little town with an ethnically homogenous population.

What better day to carry out this time-travel experiment than on

April 24? On this particular Saturday, a significant population of

the city would be busy commemorating the Armenian Genocide, and the

city would revert to what it was half a century ago. I had already

dedicated my column leading up to this day to the lives lost in 1915.

My conscience was clear; I sensed a green signal from my grandparents

in the other world.

As green seemed to be the color of the day, I headed to the coffee

shop with the green logo of the mermaid. It was about noon, and I

still had not had my Americano grande. I would have had the

“traditional” cup of coffee, but sometimes when the coffee reaches

the bottom of the barrel, it begins tasting burned. And I can feel

the employees getting tired of my seemingly snobby question: “Is the

coffee fresh?” I pay the 50 cents extra to get the consistency I

need, as well as the espresso foam that comes on top of my hot

beverage.

Lorna, the quasi-redhead manager with some distant Korean roots,

was on duty that day. I knew my Americano foam was going to be just

perfect. She did not disappoint, and in return, I decided to gift her

with a bit of coffee trivia.

“Hey, Lorna, do you know where ‘Americano’ originated from?”

“Hmm ... no, please enlighten,” she said with a hint of sarcasm.

“Only if you can take a coffee break.”

“Sure, give me a second.”

She put the cap on my Americano, dressed it up with the brown

recycled sleeve, and placed it on the oval wooden pick-up area.

“Thank you, Patrick, I’ll be out there in a second.”

While I waited outside, I had some time to think about the

delivery of my story. I was determined to keep the core of the story

true, but enhance it with a mid-century theme. Lorna eventually

walked out and sat across from me, and lighted her cigarette. She

took a deep puff into her Baltimorean lungs, kept the smoke in for a

second, and finally let it out from her nostrils. “So, tell me. Where

does the ‘Americano’ come from?”

“I thought you’d never ask ... Well, during World War II, in July

1943 to be exact, the American forces landed on the Mediterranean

island of Sicily. They arrived in the ancient port of Gela, the

ancient Campi Geloi. The port was founded by Cretan and Rhodian

colonists in 688 BC ... “

“And ... “

“Well, once the war was won, and the soldiers had some time to

enjoy themselves, three of the men found their way to a cafe in the

center piazza (public square) in Gela. As is the usual practice in

Italy, the waiters only come to your table if they feel like it. So

after the mandatory half an hour of trying to make eye contact with

the waiter, the Americans placed an order for three caffes. Another

half an hour of compulsory waiting followed before the young waiter

emerged with three shots of espresso. After another hour of waiting,

the Americans faced the possibility of consuming the tiny shots

within seconds. As in America, where more, and not less, is always

more, they sent the waiter back, demanding: ‘Caffe Americano! Caffe

Americano!’

“The puzzled waiter ran to the kitchen and informed his boss of

the apparent crisis. The big boss displayed the same type of

resourcefulness his beloved Italy had shown during the war. He

exclaimed: ‘Basta mescolare il espresso con acqua e nessuno sa la

differenza.’ (In Italian: ‘Just mix espresso with water, they won’t

know the difference.’)

“And that’s how the ‘Americano’ was born.”

By this time Lorna was trying to make rings with her smoke, but

she was startled by my abrupt silence. “Thank you for the story,

Patrick. I gotta get back to work.”

“No problem. See ya.”

It was about 1 o’clock by now, and I pondered my next move as a

Glendalian. I picked up an issue of the News-Press and scanned the

Calendar section. The 1954 movie, “On the Waterfront,” starring

Marlon Brando, was showing at 2 p.m. at the Alex. How appropriate. I

had half an hour to find a victim to accompany me to the show. I made

a phone call to my favorite Armenian redhead, and was cordially

turned down. I attributed it to the short notice. I should have known

-- the color of the day was green, not red. I walked over to the

theater, ordered myself a drink from the food stand, and sat myself

in the open-air plaza. I was basking in the sun, there wasn’t an

Armenian in sight, I was surrounded by early 20th-century

architecture, and was awaiting a 1954 movie featuring my all-time

favorite actor.

It would have been nostalgic had I lived in that era. It was an

unfamiliar state of being.

* PATRICK AZADIAN lives and works in Glendale. He is an identity

and branding consultant for the retail industry. Reach him at

padania@earthlink.net.