Roslyn Grill: The Old Queen

Pre-Script:

I want to tell you that Roslyn Grill plays a major role in the birth of Eat Colfax. In fact, I believe I remember the exact day, about a year ago, driving down Colfax back to my abode and thinking, "who goes there?" with a disdainful wince. Why does it have such a reputation, even amongst the unknowing such as myself? The seed was planted. I should go there. And why not? Do they have a sign that says No Well-Groomed Women Under 50? They most certainly do not. It's a free country, and I can go to Roslyn Grill. 

Roslyn Grill! I'm really excited. Nervous? A little. I walk by it a couple times a week at 7:45 in the morning and they are Open For Business. Lager pints half shielded by the crescent of a slumped back and a knobby hand. Hard stares, no talking. At least that's what I see from the outside. 

I do minimal research on the restaurants before I go, mostly just to check if they have a website. To be sure, Roslyn Grill has no website, but they have something far more esteemed: they have an article in the New York Times. Yup. Regrettably, there is a self-imposed ban on me reading the article, at least at this point (I'm a new writer and easily influenced). And no less notable but perhaps more obscure to the general American public, two articles in the Westword, from 1999 and 2007. Again, no read-y for me. S'ok, s'ok, I'm ready to put my imaginative capacity to compose a creative story to the test. (Okay so I skimmed the articles, but that was at least two weeks ago so by now my moderately encumbered short-term memory has long forgotten the details.) And now, the moment we've all been waiting for. . .

I invite Seth, who accompanied me to Emilio's. A man, a tall man at that, a man who is not afraid  of anything and just as excited as myself. Noon, I decide. The morning crowd is a little. . . obvious, and I'm too intimidated for whatever debauchery goes on at night. We're walking on the north side of the street, shooting past it a little to see all the angles, and I know they have a specials board on the west window that I want to check out. We wonder at the monstrosity taking shape at Penn (could it be residential up top?), stroll under the blue truk tunnel, our ears hissing at the sound of the impending construction machinery, only to discover that it's not the new building they're working on at the moment, they're tearing down the double decker McDonalds! Death to chains on Colfax! Seth points out a little too quickly that they're just going to put up another one (no! what the?) because they've caution-taped off the boulder out front with the big M etched in it. What, you mean that's not a gravestone? 

The specials board advertises a bean and chicken burrito or two chili cheese dogs for $4.99. Go "Rockies" at the bottom. While I get a little exasperated when I see misused punctuation, there's something kind of endearing about extraneous quotation marks. Walking in, we see lots of open tables, in fact all the tables are empty. The only patrons are at the bar, 6 dudes, one old lady (someone's old lady?), and Annie the barkeep. We plop down at a centrally located booth, you know I normally like the bar but I'd like to keep my note-taking clandestine. Annie greets us warmly, sans menus, perhaps we look like we just want an afternoon delight. She remarks on the demolition across the street and I realize it's going to be the focal point of her day. After we speak our intentions she hands us menus and happily tells us the specials. I don't know how long Annie has worked here, but it seems like forever to me, and I've only been here 5 minutes. Two Buds to start, and we need a minute for the food. Above the bar hangs a glass menagerie of Budweiser memorabilia that I somehow can't take my eyes from. It reminds me of an era when children pressed their faces against department store windows with expectant yule-tide glee, staring longingly at miniature versions of castles and trains and ponies. And now I'm noticing other bits of Roslyn's charismatic trappings: caricatures from the ages line the walls, stained glass lamps hang nobly from the forest green ceiling, a lovely gold-enameled mirror etched with the Budweiser Clydesdales, the faint scent of a million cigarettes smoked long ago. Annie comes back to take our order, she is all of 80 pounds, 10 of which must be the massive pile of hair swept expertly atop her head and fastened with some kind of gigantic black scrunchie. Her make up has been carefully applied, her shirt crisply pressed, her self-respect is evident and contagious. 

What to order? The specials are unappealing, was I even expecting appeal anyway? I go for the Italian sausage sandwich with fries. Seth tries for the fried chicken but "she's out of it" says Annie. This place appears to be run by women, appropriately. He's waffling, I tell him to get the chicken burrito special. Something Mexican, something Italian, okay so diner food all the way. 

No one in the Roslyn is paying us any mind, which is a surprise, and reassuring. Mostly they stare at the big screen tvs or watch the razing across the street, an occasional utterance escapes someone's lips. An older woman is sitting with a cola at a table by the window, dreamily staring out the window, seemingly waiting, waiting. A burly man with a bright orange sleeveless t-shirt that reads "we install and service hangovers" strolls though the bar, he has an air of handyman. It's almost too mellow in here, am I disappointed? Hardly, but Seth and I vow to return someday during the dark hours now that it already feels familiar. 

Annie sets the table with the thin, white, embossed, grocery store napkins my mom buys. Then comes the food. It looks as you would expect, the fries taking up 75% of the plate, cheese dripping deliciously and crustily from the innards of the sandwich. A plastic ramekin of ketchup. Seth's plate looks a little like something one would heat up in a microwave, albeit larger and absolutely swimming in green chili and cheese. I munch some fries, who's first bite isn't the fries? They are hot and crispy and white, the whitest fries I have ever eaten. So hot, so. . .crunchy, and. . . white, like I'm eating a deep-fried parsnip that's been perfectly shaped like a french fry. Not an iota of seasoning so I proceed to shake the shit out of the salt and pepper. The sandwich looks delicious, sautéed onions and green peppers are oozing out onto the plate, the edges of the plump, oval, golden brown sausage patty peaking out from the sides of the bun. The bun is a slight letdown, soaking up the juices and getting soggy before I finish devouring it. Some say a sandwich is only as good as the bun, but I've always preferred the savory middle parts anyway. The dipping sauce, which in my experience with Italian sausage sandwiches should be a traditional marinara, is most certainly and disappointingly of the Ragu spaghetti sauce variety, with chunks of long ago-canned tomatoes and onions slickly mixed in, oh it's in there alright. Bleh. No bother, the sandwich is so perfectly seasoned and juicy the sauce is unnecessary. Seth asks for extra green chili, "Oh you like that do you? It is really good, she makes it herself," says Annie. I picture a matronly Hispanic lady mixing up vats of it in the back, a true chef de cuisine de Rosyln. The green chili becomes our fry sauce and we happily munch away, completely pleased with the dining experience. 

I hop up a rickety half staircase to the bathroom and am delighted by an oversized stone and tile fireplace, right there across from the stalls. Suddenly my imagination clicks and I can see it now, the Royal Roslyn in her heyday, this would be the anteroom where ladies would giggle and gossip away from the men smoking fat cigars and listening to Old Blue Eyes and shooting pool. The unmistakable quality of classiness that still lingers in the chipped paint of the dark maroon walls, the gold-lined picture frames, and Annie herself, elegantly, pointedly made-up just as she's done her whole working life. Roslyn is like an old queen, long since dethroned but living out her days with dignity none the less, her patrons and employees still loyal supporters. Perhaps that's what they were thinking, watching the McDonald's being torn down, that suddenly their hard-luck lives would be transformed back to the glory days and there would be no shame at spending hours upon hours on the barstools of the Roslyn Grill. Who knows if any of that is true, but such was the sentiment I felt. 

Annie comes back for the financial exchange, sees the tip (a normal one for me and most restaurants I eat at) and thanks us graciously and humbly three times, tells us to come again, she really means it. "Wednesday is liver and onions day, Friday spaghetti and meatballs" she beams, trying to entice us back.  

Why the stigma, Roslyn? It's the way you're perceived and it's easy to blame the neighborhood: the addicts, the dealers, the homeless, the hard-up. And you open your doors and arms wide for whoever dares to enter. But it's not just a demographic of social outcasts that inhabit the jungle, it's also the professionals, the civil servants, the students, the hipsters, all of these urban dwellers that create a beautiful juxtaposition on this stretch of metropolitan main street. I'm not afraid anymore Roslyn, and I'll be the first person to recommend you.