My entire family is shy. We are tongue-tied around strangers and silent in groups; a Karaoke Bar is our idea of hell. You have never seen a group of people who live in such mortal terror of being made conspicuous, or of being embarrassed in public.
Thankfully, in middle age the opportunities for social ridicule are somewhat limited so long as you don’t drink excessively or wear age-inappropriate clothing. That is why on a quick weekend trip to New York City my two sisters, my partner and I were not thinking about public humiliation. We were thinking about dinner.
As we were crossing Lexington Avenue and debating the merits of Italian versus Mexican, my middle sister tripped and fell down just as the light changed. Embarrassed to have taxis blowing their horns at her, she literally bounced back to her feet and claimed she wasn’t hurt. By the time we walked one block, however, she was limping, so we went into the first restaurant we saw: “Helga’s Hungarian Bistro”.
It was a lucky choice because as it turned out, Helga’s was outstanding, offering goulash, stroganoff, chicken paprikash and stuffed cabbage. It was like walking into a Hungarian wet dream. We drank some wine and relaxed, but as the entrees were being served, I saw, with a sinking heart, that an accordion player was tuning up.
The accordion player was not talented, but he was certainly loud. He strolled from table to table, smiling expansively while playing the “Blue Danube Waltz.” At each table the diners stopped eating for a moment, smiled politely, handed him a couple of dollars and he moved on.
When he came to our table, 4 faces stared at him in horror, forks frozen in midair. He launched into the “Beer Barrel Polka” but since none of us made a move for our wallets he did not leave; he played louder. The other diners began to notice.
None of us are especially quick thinkers, but my partner was the first to perceive that all eyes were on us. He never carries cash, so he whispered, “They think we’re cheapskates; give him some money.” Obediently, the rest of us reached for our wallets. My middle sister got to hers first, and handed the musician a bill. He looked at it, eyes wide, and walked away.
A moment later the music swelled again: the accordion player returned with the cook, who had a violin. They made a beeline for our table and began an unfortunate rendition of “Dueling Banjoes.” After a minute they were joined by Helga, who had a tambourine. People began to stare.
I looked at my sister. ”What did you give him?” I asked. She was instantly defensive. “Fifty,” she said, “it was the first bill I found.”
“Fifty?” I said. “For $50 you could hire the entire Hungarian Philharmonic.” By this time the trio had segued into “Musetta’s Waltz” and Helga, inspired, began to twirl. The other diners, watching, began to shake their heads. The people at the next table started to mutter ominously.
Desperate for invisibility, my middle sister grabbed her wallet again and handed the musicians more money. ”Thank you,” she said, she thought, with finality.
The result was nothing short of breathtaking; Helga gave a shrill whistle and the kitchen staff, armed with flutes, cowbells and, I swear, a kazoo, swarmed to our table and began a roof-raising cover of “Ode to Joy.” During a pause, the accordion player asked the other diners to give my sister a round of applause, because “This lady knows fine music,” and as we ran to the street she was not limping at all.