Etta James in the diner
My wife was working in Lincoln Center and I would often drive her
there, particularly on the weekends when uptown traffic was minimal at
6:30 in the morning. Driving back to our apartment, I'd occasionally
stop for breakfast at what was a true classic diner in the west forties.
It was literally built like a railroad car; long and narrow
and perpendicular to the street. The grill was on one side with an aisle
that separated the counter stools from the eight tables that were built
into the wall, on the other.
I was walking back to the men's room, and as I approached the rear of
the diner, I saw Miss Etta James looking very sad and a bit haggard at
the last table opposite the pay phone. I'd seen her perform several
times over 15 years; I was aware of her joys in success and the depth of
her falls, via bad management and drugs. A close friend had been part
of her band and had given me some insight into who (she claims) is the
illegitimate daughter of Rudolf Walter Wanderone Jr., also known as
"Minnesota Fats."
If there is a sacred side to the night life, and music to go with it, Etta's
recordings, especially Tell Mama, were exactly that to me. I continued
walking past, not acknowledging her, even though a part of me wanted
to say something. It was early on a cold Sunday morning, and this
legendary music Queen was waiting all alone for the phone to ring, or
someone to show up with what she needed. As I walked out from the
back I didn't look at her. I sat down to have breakfast at the counter
where I could watch the cook create large piles of home fried potatoes
for the crowd he was expecting.
