FROM THE MARGINS
Glendale News Press

A day in the life of a mid-century Glendalian

PATRICK AZADIAN
June 12, 2004

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 café 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 caffés. 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: ‘Caffé Americano! Caffé 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.

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