Old men know when an old man dies

by David Grand
November 6, 2003

I knew, instinctively, than when my longtime friend, Chris Kosmakos, was rushed to the hospital from a nursing home last month that he'd soon be embarking on his last and longest (and best) voyage. So I wasn't surprised when I heard that he'd gone "gently into the night." And even though I sighed with pain, as if a knife had been twisted inside of me, I also felt a sense of relief in knowing that his suffering was over.

Our friendship was formed at Marie's restaurant in Westminster , which he originally owned before turning it over to his son Ernie. But he was still a constant presence there, sitting in his catbird seat in the far corner of the dining area where he could observe everything going on, right or wrong.

His pet peeve was when he saw people up front waiting to be seated, to which he would clink his water glass with a spoon to alert the staff. I've also seen him offer to pick up the tab on those rare occasions when a customer expressed dissatisfaction with something they'd ordered, and sent over glasses of wine to those who'd grown impatient waiting to be served.

His memory was like a powerful microchip, knowing the exact price the restaurant paid for everything from the meats and veggies, down to the price of a single onion ring (14 cents). And he'd shudder each time he saw untouched food being thrown away. So I was careful to eat everything on my plate or ask for a "doggie bag" to avoid receiving his evil stare.

However, the most lasting memory I have of him was as a storyteller, who could recall in infinite detail past experiences in his life, like the time he knocked Fritzie Zivic, the reigning world's welterweight champion in the early forties, on his butt with a solid, left hook in a sparring session. And when, as a young whippersnapper, he carted booze across town to speak-easies for a bootlegger during Prohibition in his little red wagon for a nickel. (But he repeated some of them so many times that I could tell 'em better than he could.)

Before reaching the top rung of his profession as an executive chef (having once served President Truman at a buffet dinner), his first venture into the culinary world was when he owned a small restaurant in Pittsburgh called the Yum-Yum, where (in a back room) he ran much more profitable poker games. But that was in a different era, when skirting around the laws against illegal gambling was as commonplace as gang- shootings.

Yes, to many he was regarded as a cantankerous, old fuddy-duddy, whose anger would flow out of him like lava at the slightest provocation. But beneath that tough-guy exterior, he was soft as a marshmallow and as warm-hearted as a Salvation Army bell-ringer at Christmas, especially when it came to showing his unfailing devotion and love for his wife of forty years, and for his children and grandchildren.

As his health began failing, I encouraged him to publish a cook book containing the hundreds of recipes he'd compiled over the years, and to go on vacation with me to Greece, his ancestral home which he'd never seen. But sadly, he wasn't up to doing either.

Now, I still sit in that far corner out of respect for his memory; and keep bugging Ernie to put a small plaque on the wall behind where we sat, reading "the old men's corner." And if he does, a simple wooden one would do just fine. For if it was an expensive, bronze plaque, no doubt Chris would send down a lightening bolt to show his displeasure at spending that much money.

And if by some miracle, I'm able to slip through the Pearly Gates (provided, of course, that the gatekeeper is asleep or taking a break), I'll be looking for a sign pointing the way to the Yum-Yum restaurant, where there'd probably be a long line of angels waiting to get in (for even they would appreciate getting a good meal). But heaven forbid, I won't find Chris running a poker game in a back room. He wouldn't dare to, I'm sure, without having the Lord's blessing. But I wouldn't bet on it.